And of Such Follies
by luckwouldhaveit
Summary: Alyce Waters has sworn to be Lord Tyrion Lannister's sword and shield against the dangers he may face now that he has been smuggled across the narrow sea. Her dwarf charge appears to be nothing more than an unruly drunk, but she will remain true to her vow.
1. I: Sword Sword and Vow

**.**

 _Author's Note to Readers:_

 _This is a slow-burning (at least in the beginning) romance to give Tyrion a happier ending than the one it seems Martin might have in store for him. And if you like strong female characters, you're in the right place._

 _I will not be conforming to Martin's POV style for each chapter; the story will mainly be from the perspective of my OC, and if I change perspectives, it will be seamlessly, without a chapter break. Also, I feel it was terribly unjust of Martin to lop off Tyrion's nose when he already has so many other disadvantages, so I am going to write it as only a scar._

 _At times I will use lines taken directly from George Martin's works, so I take the time now to credit him._

 _Finally, the Tyrion Lannister I imagine and craft is Peter Dinklage's, & the name 'Alyce' is pronounced like 'Alice.' _

_Thank you, and enjoy._

…

 **And Of Such Follies**

Part I: Sworn Sword and Vow

…

"At least he did not dream. He had dreamed enough for one small life. And of such follies: love, justice, friendship, glory. As well dream of being tall."

— _Dance with Dragons_ , George R. R. Martin

…

I.

Sworn Sword and Vow

 **A** lyce Waters squinted at the small script in the dim light, engrossed in a story. Among the books Corliss the acolyte had given her to read for the week was a romance between a knight of Highgarden and a lady of Summerhall, and she was of course reading that one first before forcing herself through the tedious histories.

The cramped room she sat in was circular and plain but for the extensive wardrobe of sheer fabrics, gem necklaces, peacock feathered ornaments, and lacy underclothes in the large wardrobe to one side of it. The candles that lit it were few, but of real wax and even scented. The bed's mattress was linen, but plain. Alyce was sitting with her back against the wall on a pad of wool blankets on the floor that she was using to sleep on.

The muffled, breathy cries of a woman faking orgasm began to issue through the floorboards from below her. Alyce wiggled her bare toes at the sound, but did not look up from the book.

Her friend Rhea was in front of the wardrobe's mirror, finishing tying herself into a wispy silken dress.

"Lock up behind me and remember to stay quiet," Rhea told her under her breath. "You know the moment Madam sees you're here, she'll insist you employ yourself like the rest of us—"

"—or find the door, I know," Alyce finished for her. "I'll only be here a day more. The goldcloaks will give up after that, and I'll be able to sleep in my own bed."

Rhea made an absent humming sound. She had the nose and eyes of a Lysseni though she was born and raised in Maidenpool. Her slightly exotic look helped her with her clientele. She also had very tiny feet. Alyce looked over the top of her book at her own rather large feet. Her lips thinned.

"Wish me luck."

Alyce glanced up at her and smirked. "I wish you a dashing knight with all his teeth and a cock the size of his forearm, darling."

Rhea laughed under her breath as she shut the door behind her. Alyce got up to lock the door, but as she was turning the key, a soft rapping on the wood from the other side made her pause. She shifted her weight slightly, feeling the knives concealed in thin sheathes under her clothes against the small of her back and under the left sleeve of her dress. She reached her fingertips under that sleeve to touch her fingertips to the small dagger handle.

"Who is it?"

"A bird," came the quiet answer. Alyce relaxed and opened the door. A tiny boy of six or seven stood in the hall. He held out a scrap of parchment to her and promptly left. Alyce knew her benefactor's handwriting at a glance.

 _The fifth prayer room at seven_ , it read. Alyce grimaced. She had been hoping he would visit her soon, but she knew this summons was probably do to her ill behavior from the day before. _I'll tell him what happened. He'll believe me_.

It was close on to seven, so she knelt beside her blanket pad, dropped her book onto it absently, and pulled from under it a thick, strong leather swordbelt. The belt had steal fastenings and was loaded with sheaths for knives. She placed it gently onto the bed, and then sat to pull on her boots. The old leather was a little tight in the toes; she would have to ask for replacements at the meeting tonight.

Standing, she lifted her skirts into one arm impatiently and fastened the belt tight atop her hips around the top hem of her linen smallclothes. She let her skirts fall again. The fabric was thick and unflattering enough that it concealed the belt. She took up a thin grey wool cloak, ran her fingers through her tangled hair, and then gave up on making herself more presentable.

Outside the warm brothel, the streets of King's Landing smelt of stale piss and got riskier the longer after dark the hour became. The city was not as desperate as it had been in the weeks before Queen Margaery had brought food in from Highgarden, but still it was not the kindest place after dark. Alyce was long used to it. This city was her home, and the eyes in the dark could tell by the swift, smooth strides of her legs that she knew her business in these streets.

She lifted a latch and slipped into a dark hall of the familiar sept that made her feel half a girl again, as it always did. She walked confidently through the blackness until she felt she was close. She reached out and silently touched a door handle, feeling for the number etched in it. _Six_. _The next one…_

When she opened the door, he was sitting with some bread and cheese in the small, dimly-lit prayer room. Candles were lit piously for every figure of the seven gods of the Citadel on the mantle to the right. Alyce closed the door behind her quietly and walked to him.

He was wearing a septon's robes—as was his usual attire for this meeting place—and he smelled like tallow and old books. He had dressed that way all throughout her childhood, and she had been convinced for many years that her protector was a kindly—albeit secretive—septon. After she had learned the truth at around ten years old, she had told him frankly the next time she had seen him that she had recognized him "up there with the lords and ladies" and that he did not have to dress up anymore.

 _Oh, I find many benefits to dressing up, tichira_ , he had told her. _I think I shall continue and I think you shall not tell anyone what you now know_. His tone had been very firm, but his eyes had held a measure of pride in them.

He touched her chin affectionately when she sat beside him on the bench. Though they were of a height now, it had not always been so. She smiled. " _Favrimar_." He had taught her to call her by the word for _patron_ in High Valyrian when she was very small. Though formal, the term had long become an endearment.

"You broke your teacher's wrist," he scolded.

"He was a brute." She crossed her legs brusquely. "He tried to put his hands places I did not want them. Anyway, I was practically _born_ swimming in the bay. These are one set of lessons it shan't hurt me to cut short."

"To swim well one must needs technique."

"I have seen others and just copied them. I can do all the strokes. Pray do not send me to another."

Lord Varys opened his soft hands in a look of acquiescence. "He did not harm you, I trust?"

"I didn't give him a chance to, but I thought you chose your instructors with more care than that, my lord."

"Alas, there was no reason to think he would behave in such a way. The temptation must have been just too much."

Alyce made a face, helping herself to some of the cheese. It was of good quality. She looked up at Varys, trying to read his enigmatic expression.

"You aren't displeased?"

"After taking pains to make sure you can defend yourself from such, I do not know why I would be," he replied, nibbling some cheese as well.

Alyce relaxed fully and trained her soft blue eyes on him, waiting for him to take up the conversation. He had brought her to him for a purpose. He always had a purpose.

Varys sat back in his pious robes and folded his hands together.

" _Tichira_ , I had hoped when I made plans to foster you under my protection that you would serve me well. You have done that much and more."

Alyce warmed under the unexpected praise. Varys never praised her unless it was deserved. She knew she could sometimes be bullheaded, but she had always done everything he had asked of her and had done it well, because she knew it was to him she owed the life she led safely off the dirty streets with the rest of the bastard-born.

He had had her instructed in how to read languages, how to fight, how to move quietly, how to deceive, how to kill, how to hold a wine glass. She could speak like a courtier and a sailor. She knew High Valyrian and a number of its bastard dialects alongside her native Common Tongue. She had learned how to see or hear what was truly important in a room or in a conversation. She knew what truth sounded like and what lies sounded like. She had belonged to someone, had been taken care of, and had been given an education the firstborn son of a lord would have been proud of. He had given her more than other bastard children could even dream of.

She owed him everything.

He had used her for many tasks—some as simple as becoming someone's friend, some as odd as switching out a nobleman's left shoe, and some as difficult and dangerous as sneaking through secret passageways in the Red Keep. He never asked her to kill—he had other people for such things—but they both knew she had taken lives in order to complete with discretion some of the tasks she had been set. She took his word as law and would do anything her asked of her. He was her security and savior, and almost the only person she regarded as family. Even to the baseborn, family was sacred.

She felt almost immediately, however, that there was another side to this praise. He wanted something of her. He always wanted something of her, and that was expected, but this time it seemed something with a deal more gravity than usual. Why else try to warm her?

"You have your mother's sweetness and your father's tenacity," he continued.

Alyce did not particularly consider either of those a compliment. She loved her mother, but the woman was soft and silly and prone to tears of any emotion. And her father…

 _That_ little bit of truth had been kept a secret from her until the bastard raid. She had been awakened at the beginning of this year by scruffy armed men barging in and posting themselves as her guards in the middle of the night. The effort had luckily been without warrant. Varys had hidden her so well as to have completely escaped royal knowledge.

Her father had certainly been tenacious…but it had also been the death of him. He had been made for war, and without one to fight was ruined by his own bad habits and a wife who hated him.

"I have sent you on journeys to the north, the west, and the south," Varys said, "and given you tasks which you have always fulfilled to the best of my wishes. You have both killed and bedded men. You have worked for a living at any trade I put you to. All these things you have done well. And rather to my own surprise, I have grown terribly fond of you."

 _This sounds more like a goodbye than anything else. He is sending me away_.

Varys saw the suddenly trepidation in her eyes and patted her leg. "Listen now. There is a task I need done, and I confess I know of no person I would trust to do it better. I do not wish for you to leave me. But so many game pieces have been thrust out into the unknown wild… I need someone I can truly trust to help keep them safe while they flail about." He smiled a small smile. "Once you have seen that a certain person has done their part in safety, I shall have you hurried back."

Alyce took a breath, filling her lungs and buying herself a moment. She wanted to get out into the world…but also she was also a touch afraid of it _. It could swallow me whole. There is war. Desperate bands of men. Soon famine in the Riverlands. And as the Starks used to say, winter is coming._

"What am I to do?" There was no thought of refusing.

Varys moved close silently and lowered his voice, though there was almost no chance there was anyone nearby.

"Tyrion Lannister has arrived on the shores of Pentos and is in the care of an old friend of mine."

"Mopatis," Alyce murmured.

"You know what you know," Varys murmured back. "Now. I am rather fond of this little lord, and it is by no means certain that he will be able to survive in the Free Cities… He is but a dwarf there, easily stepped on, captured… His sister has sent out assassins after him, and neither mine nor Illyrio's reach extends far or strongly enough to guarantee his safety. But I should prefer him alive, you see. He could play an important role in seasons to come." His eyes sparkled subtlety. Alyce nodded once. She needed no more explanation. The second Lannister son—the infamous, convicted Imp—was important to Lord Varys. Being so, she would guard him with her life.

"I will find him as soon as I am able and I will protect him, my lord."

Varys patted her hand.

"What should I know about him and about this journey?" She looked him firm in the eye.

A corner of Varys' mouth lifted. "Here is what I think you should know, dear one. The journey will be perfectly simple until you depart from my friend's manse. The plan after is to send him and a collection of others to the Queen Daenerys Targaryen." His voice was very low and intimate. Alyce had to sit very still in order to catch every word.

"For help or harm?" she asked very quietly.

"Help to be sure." She knew he was whispering intentions to her that he shared with very, very few others. Luckily she knew how to keep still and hear. "Along that intent, well," —Varys opened his soft hands in a delicate stymied gesture— "there is no knowing how things might go. The way to Volantis is treacherous."

Alyce nodded. "And what should I know about the dwarf?"

Varys smiled. "Oh, he is _fascinating_. Endlessly. Clever and full of all sorts of aspirations. Tricky, but oddly more moral than one would expect."

Alyce frowned. She had heard so many different accounts of the dwarf of Lannister that even with Varys' insights she did not know what to expect.

"Did he kill his father?" she asked directly.

"Oh yes indeed."

"Did he kill Joffrey?"

Varys' eyes shone with knowledge in the dim light. "No. He is not one for killing children, however terrible they might be."

"I heard he has a weakness for whores," she murmured, wondering if this was an angle she could use to get close to the man.

"Ah. Yes, perhaps _before_." Varys' lips thinned slightly.

 _Before his father shamed him over the one he was keeping in the Red Keep_. Alyce vaguely knew the gossip.

"Tyrion has a colorful and shameful history with women," Varys added delicately.

Alyce nodded. _That angle is out, then_. "Is he kind? Cruel? What sort of man is he really?"

"Now who can say what sort of man any man is? But, I will tell you this: I know him to be as kind as he can when he can. I know him to be ruthless when he must. I know he has been cut deeply, terribly, by those he has put faith in. And he is just about as clever as they come, dear one. If you allow yourself to see deeper than the surface he presents…he is a good man. One who craves kindness and belonging but would never behave as if he did."

 _Not a cruel man, then. More like an abused one. If Varys says he is a good man, he must be. How often the beliefs of the commoners have everything backwards._ Alyce sat back slightly. It sounded as if she would be able to respect her charge. That would make things easier.

"I will need new boots."

"Everything is packed."

"Shall I leave tonight?"

"You will. Visit with your mother in number eight. When you return, Taren will be here to escort you to the ship."

Varys stood then, and so did she. He stepped close to her and touched her chin. He said nothing, but his eyes were soft. Alyce put a gentle hand on his chest. She knew he was not a man for intimate gestures, and though he continuously surprised her, she felt close to him. She had found other father figures in the city—fisherman, pawners, musicians, tavern owners—but Varys had been her guardian ever since she could remember. She loved and trusted him as she did no one else.

He made a contented humming noise and patted her hand once before she lowered it, they stepped apart, and she went next door to room eight. Inside her mother was on her knees praying to one of the Seven. She was a plump woman with fair, smooth skin, light brown eyes, and sandy hair, though that hair was always covered in her septa's wimple. Alyce thought she looked very little like her mother with her thick raven hair and hard, wiry build, though Varys claimed her face was like her mother's when her mother had been younger, and that they had the same hands.

Her mother stood to embrace her, fat tears already rolling down her pink cheeks.

"I'm only going to be gone for a while. I just have to go babysit some lord across the Narrow. Don't bed any kings while I'm gone," she japed.

" _Hush_ ," her mother chided in a watery voice.

Alyce escaped as soon as she was able and met her guide in the previous room. Varys had gone, but in his place stood a scruffy-looking boy of thirteen or fourteen years with drab brown hair and suspicious brown eyes. She concealed her disappointment. He was little more than a child. Was this supposed to help her? On his jaw was the wishful fuzz of a beard, but his mouth was set in a determined line. She spied weapons concealed beneath his jerkin because she knew where to look.

"Are you Taren?"

"Aye."

They shook hands.

"Let's be on our way," Alyce said without preamble. There would be enough time for talk on the sea. "Is everything already on the ship?"

"Yeh, an' we're expected, so keep pace," he replied brusquely as she followed him out of the room. His Flea Bottom inflection was thick.

They left King's Landing behind them in the darkness. It was impossible to keep silent traversing down the stony decline to the bay, but there were no noises of others around.

"How long will the passage take?" she asked him as they kept to the water's edge, moving toward the hulking black silhouettes of docked ships against the stars. A few of the ships had faint oil lanterns burning.

"Four days if we don' run into no trouble," he replied in a low voice. "Now no talking."

Ignoring that, she asked, "You good with that sword?"

She had seen a handsome blade at his side beside a number of other scruffier sheaved knives at his belt. She was certain it had been a gift from Varys.

"Don' you worry about that."

That was it for the talking that night. Even in the darkness Taren knew the ship they were expected on, and they were greeted with silent nods from the crewmen as they boarded.

Their cabins were small, but separate and adjacent, and Alyce was glad to see hers had a bolt lock on the inside by the light of the small glass oil lamp. She was also delighted to see a well-made cloth pack filled with new clothes and number of parcels piled on her bed and the floor. She rarely got new things, and she opened and looked at them all with eagerness.

Packed along with many of her old clothes and belongings, Varys had gotten her many pairs of new traveling clothes, and she smirked when she unrolled them. _Ah, the gods are good. He has me wearing pants._

There were no dresses among her new clothes; only practical and well-made traveler's shirts and pants tailored slightly to suit a woman, as well as new boiled leather, two pairs of well-fitting boots, and a mail hauberk. She eyed the mail with distaste. She would not be wearing it often; it was too cumbersome, and it would also prove deadweight in her pack for the most part. She did not see anything suited for the coming winter, so she knew Varys intended her for warmer climes.

Her old but excellent steel shortsword was among her belongings. She also found a compass, her old bow and quiver of arrows, a good steel hatchet, a high quality water satchel, combs, maps of the Free Cities, thick woolen socks and thin cotton ones, new linen underclothes, parcels of cured dried meats, well-made soaps, and a medical bag with ointments and cloths…and a few other "medicinal" items Alyce knew enough about to recognize. Varys had placed a few vials of poisons, milk of the poppy, and other highly useful little poisons and drugs alongside the more docile ointments and cloths.

Her favorite of his presents she sat down onto the cot to inspect closer. She had been trained with axe and mace, crossbow, sword and shield, war hammer, bow and arrow, and arakh, but the weapon she had taken the most liking to was the knife. The easiest weapon to conceal, they could be just as deadly as a sword when thrust and as deadly as arrows when thrown. They were, however, limited and finicky lovers. Knives abandoned their master almost as often as arrows, and, when thrown, had a very short range in which they were powerful.

Alyce most often used knives while sparring. One of her teachers had encouraged her use of knives in swordplay where the others had only scoffed, and with his molding, she had settled into her own preferred style. She would hold her shortsword in her right hand—it was light enough for it and she had a strong arm—and wield a hefty dirk in her other. While distracting the enemy with the sword, she could use the knife. If she lost the first knife, there were always others at her belt.

Varys had given her four such large, sturdy knives—excellently made with unadorned but nonetheless handsome handles. Another, a dagger, was thin and slight and would make a perfect replacement should she have to abandon one of the knives that currently hid against the small of her back or beneath her sleeve. Among the collection was also a new stiletto, never used by the shine of it, with a point so sharp she could barely see it.

But the knives Alyce gazed most interestedly at came in a rolled set. They were all smallish throwing knives. Steel, with no handles, and double blades sharp as razors. The blades on one side contained a slight shallow divot where she would place her thumb before releasing. This gift bemused Alyce. Varys had always referred to knife-throwing as an 'impractical art,' and though she enjoyed throwing, as a rational person, Alyce could not but regard it as such herself.

She had spent a few minutes with each the previous knives, familiarizing herself with them, as each knife generally has a slightly difference balance, weight, and feel. She needed to know them if she wanted to use them well. But with these knives… She held one in her hand, and then the next, and found that they also were somehow so similar to each other in weight and feel she could not tell the difference between them. _These took great skill and precision to make…Varys spoils me with this princely gift._

She replaced the knives in their roll and felt a thrill of expectation. _If I learn to throw one with accuracy, I can with the rest. Their range is much shorter than a bow's, but within a certain distance…I will be deadly with these._

Among the extremely useful and quality gifts and equipment she had been given for her journey, she also found some work to be done. There were old books of dragonlore on her bed as well as a history and lineage of the Lannister and Targaryen houses. There were short passages in the different dialects of the Free Cities and in high and low Valyrian in order to test her adequate and hard-earned understanding of those tongues. There were a few letters regarding Tyrion, his actions, and his whereabouts from a variety of senders and in a variety of scripts.

Alyce bolted her cabin door, stripped down to her smallclothes, freed herself of weapons, and, though her eyes felt rather tired, opened one of the family histories as the ship found its way quietly over the dark, rolling Blackwater out into the open sea.

…


	2. II: Magister Mopatis

…

II.

Magister Mopatis

 **S** he woke as she rolled over and the cover of the Lannister history book nudged her in the face. Rubbing her eyelid, she sat up and squinted in the darkness. The small cabin was windowless, and the only light came from under her door, but she could vaguely hear commands being called by someone with a deep voice and gathered it was morning.

Slipping her legs off the cot, she reached for an oil lamp and lit it to lighten the cabin. After rubbing her face, she began to strap on the thin leather sheaths of her concealed knifes. After they were settled on, she pulled on two of her new shirts, an undertunic and an overshirt, and a pair of the pants she'd been given. She savored the feel of the material tight against her thighs and crotch and reached up behind her to feel how easily accessible the knife hidden against her lower back had become. She tucked the shirts down into the pants and belted it all up and together with the knife belt she cinched to her waist.

Her legs felt free and somehow stronger. All over she felt stronger. _There is perceived strength in masculinity. And I have just clothed myself in it._

She pulled on her new boots, ran her fingers a couple times through her mussed hair, and then wrapped it up in a bun out of her way with some twine.

The sea-salt smell was much stronger now than it had been in the bay. Alyce took the narrow wooden stairs two at a time and came out on deck. The crew shot her the same disapproving or lewd looks she got from the men of King's Landing whenever she did not conceal her arm muscles or wore men's attire. After a time, however, most of them began to largely ignore her as they went about their business keeping the vessel on track to the east.

It was a windy but clear morning. After a few minutes of standing at the rails in the breeze and seeing really all there was of the grey sea stretching all around them, Alyce stepped below deck again in search of her traveling companion.

She found Taren slicing onions for the ship's cook in the cramped, warm galley, and regretted coming upon him, because the cook immediately ordered her to work as well. As she set to work soaking hardtack in cold beef broth, she asked him, "So are you staying on with me after we reach Pentos?"

Taren had eyed her change of attire with surprise when she had first entered the galley, but had had moved on from it within moments. He shook his head at her question. "Nah. Whatever job you's got, I don' know about it an' I ain't a part of it. I got my own job to do fer our employer." He glanced suspiciously at the cook who was slicing up salted beef into portions. He knew to be confidential.

"Right." After a minute of silence, she asked him, "Are you used to being on ships?"

"Yeh, I been on fair amount o' ships."

"Do you have any good stories?"

Taren glanced up at her and smirked a little. "There'us this ship I was on once—it was comin' from the Orange Shore full of jewels an' fruits an' cloths an' coins an' such—one 'o the ones that trade w' Sunspear. An' we was abou' halfway when the cap' decides 'ee might just want to keep fer his'self all this on his ship that his merchant was payin' 'im to take across." Taren grinned "So 'ee has us sail to Lys and 'ee takes most 'o the wealth an' leaves. An' me an' t'other people on the ship, we jus' take 'o what 'ee left. I got some Sar Mell jewels an' coins I didn' recognize an' so much sweet fruit I thought I would burst with it. Some 'o us without no place we had to be, we jus' sat in that docked ship an' ate 'an drank wine an' tried to figure out how to take more things with us. I caught a boat out of Lys back to Sunspear, my pockets and packs all loaded with everything I got."

Alyce was smiling. "Sounds like a good deal."

"Fer me," he agreed, nodding. "But really for them cap'ems it's a better deal to stay employed. It's mighty temptin' to steal a full ship like that, but once his money runs out, 'ee might not find as good a position again."

"What do you know about Pentos?" Alyce asked him. "I've never been."

The boy shrugged. "It's a port city. Huge 'un. Bigger than th' port o' King's Landing—much bigger. The people, they love their bright colors. Like birds. They die their hair an' style it in odd ways. The big brick towers are the homes of the spice traders. An' there's a red temple an' sprawling manses an' all the roofs are tile. It smells like money an' fish."

"Who rules it?"

"The richest magisters. There's a prince but 'ee just attends ceremonies an' things. If something goes wrong, the magisters have 'im killed an' chose another."

"There's a lot of Braavos' influence there as well, right?"

Taren nodded. "Tha's why they don' have slaves. Or at least say they don'. They keep 'servants' which are th' same thing."

Alyce nodded, curiosity satisfied. Taren did not ask her questions in return which she liked. Although it might have been good to have begun practicing the lies she would be using on Lannister and his party.

When they finally escaped the cook, Alyce found a nook lit by the natural light from the deck above and read by the daylight in order to conserve her lamp's oil. She finished the Lannister history that day as well as all the letters. When she was finished with what she had brought out to read and was beginning to shiver with chill, she slipped back down into her cabin and lit the lamp.

Placing the letters and book on the bed, she took her belt and boots off and began doing exercises. She was used to having an entire city to walk through and training to do, and she knew that without exercise her muscles would become restless. No doubt she would also become peevish.

When she began to feel tired about an hour and a half in, she lay her head down on the floor and stopped. The insides of her thighs and her arms ached, but it was a good ache.

The ship was quieter now. To get up with the sun as was expected, so she ought to go to bed when it set. Alyce locked her door, stripped down into her smallclothes, and blew out the lamp.

The next few days were much the same. She watched the crew work some, learning about what it took to guide a ship's sails, and read as much as she could stand. She finished the Targaryen history and started in on one of the thin, old books about dragons. She found that volume incredibly pretentious, however, and not nearly as interesting as she had hoped. She spoke to Taren when she found him, but their conversations were not often long. Toward evening, sometimes she even dropped into the galley because she knew the cook would give her something to cut up or clean when she was bored. He also sometimes tossed over at her an orange or pear from the stores in thanks for her help. They were under-ripe, but she savored them regardless. Fruit was a very rare treat where she grew up.

They had good weather on their trip. It rained a little but never stormed, and the wind was always fairly constant. Alyce had been on worse journeys.

She stared at the swaying shadows the oil lamp's flame cast against the wall of her cabin, names of long-dead dragons and their riders swimming in her head. She had nursed up a headache from hours of reading and could feel both its pressure as well as a few chilly licks of nervousness snaking in her belly. She would soon be out of her element in an unknown land and needed to gain the trust or at least the tolerance of an infamous lion of Lannister. She had played a part around noblemen and knights before, but she did not often feel truly at ease around their highborn ilk.

Varys had never asked her to get close to those of the royal family or even others of the council. She had always felt a measure of protection in that avoidance.

But now she would have to commit. Foul this, and she would not be safe for further court intrigues. Even though the Imp was currently on the run for the king's murder and might not be communicating with anyone of the court or council any time soon, things had a way of coming back. Lose Lannister, lose the court, and be that much less useful to Lord Varys.

Alyce licked her fingers and pinched out her lamp.

…

They found the port of Pentos that morning.

Their arrival was sooner than Alyce had expected. She was worried she would be all alone trying to find Illyrio's manse in the sprawling, loud, colorful city, but Taren was waiting for her in the ship's narrow hall when she had packed up all her things.

"I'm to take you to the place you're to be goin'," he said matter-of-factly as she followed him up onto the deck and squinted in the sunlight. It was warmer here than it had been in King's Landing, though still autumn, and the blue sea sparkled merrily as it held up all manner of ships in docking. The air smelled faintly of exotic spices mingled with the smell off the sea foam.

The city looked to be just as Taren had described it: wealthy, colorful, fishy. Sailors carried crates and trunks of merchant's wares on and off ships, barrels of fresh lamprey, crab, and oysters were being rolled down gangplanks onto the docks, fisherman's wives shouted the morning's catch, and all manner of proud, sparkling, dark-skinned, or olive-skinned foreigners walked to and fro about their business.

As she nodded a thanks to the captain of the ship and followed Taren across the plank and onto the wide wooden dock, she blinked around at everything, trying to keep her eyes sharp. She had fully loaded herself with weapons as she had dressed and knew she made an interesting sight. She wore her shortsword on her belt along with all the knives her belt had sheaths to accommodate. She had a slim boiled leather vest on over her shirts, was wearing pants, and had tied her thick hair in a bun again to keep it out of her eyes should she need to turn and twist in a fight. Her radical attire drew some eyes, so her own were narrowed in wariness. A kind of nervous energy was pumping through her, making her heart beat fast. She showed nothing of it on her face. Taren too looked to be alert and on his guard even though he knew the port well.

They weaved through the throngs of people, keeping to the port edge and heading south along it. They only stopped briefly for Taren to purchase two skewers of fruit and seared cod for them for breakfast from someone he knew before they continued hurrying down the seafront.

Eventually the throngs of people were left behind and they took a right turn on a sandstone walk beside a massive twelve-foot high red brick wall with iron spikes at the top. Over its top she could see the tops of cherry trees.

They walked along this wall for what seemed like a mile. Finally they took another turn where it turned and walked to heavy metal gates as tall as the wall and painted white. They were guarded by four plump guards who did not wear any armor, but did wear exotic-looking halberds strapped diagonally across their backs, long curved knives at their waists, and bronze spike-studded caps on their bald heads.

The two sitting stood as she and Taren approached them.

Without waiting for them, Taren said loudly rough Pentoshi that was more formal than his native tongue, "I'm escorting a guest for Magister Illyrio."

The gauds said nothing, but a slim older man's face with a very wispy blonde goatee appeared to peer at them through a small windowed section in the heavy doors.

"From where?" the slim man asked him in Pentoshi much better than Taren's.

"From King's Landing on the _Green Tide_."

The man nodded a few times, lifting a parchment up close to his face in the window and squinting at it. "Yes, she's expected." Keys jangled and the doors were unlocked from the inside.

"And the boy?" one of the guards asked in a quick grunt.

Before the man with the scroll could reply, Taren inserted firmly, "I was instructed to bring her _personally_ to the magister by a great friend of the magister's."

The guard looked to the man with the parchment, now standing in the open doorway, who nodded in acquiescence.

"Their weapons?"

"They may keep them. But watch that…girl."

Alyce scowled at him. They were brought inside. One of the guards followed them in. Past the gatehouse, the manse's wall-in grounds held spacious luxury. There were all manner of fruit trees, marble pools, fine statues, and gardens that looked to extend from the sides behind the great manse. Late blooming flowers filled the space with a cloying sweet scent.

Alyce expected to be taken inside the great manse, but the man with the scroll took them along the side of it to a handsome veranda. He opened its door for them and, behind the guard, Taren strode directly up to the occupant of the veranda, Alyce following.

She had never seen Illyrio Mopatis, and she was shocked by his immense size. He was lounging in a cushioned porch chair which was built to accommodate his grotesque girth, and he had an oiled yellow forked beard. Letters covered the small stone table to his left. Jewels danced when he moved his hands; onyx and opal, tiger's eye and tourmaline, ruby, amethyst, sapphire, emerald, jet and jade, a black diamond, a green pearl. On his sausage-thick fingers sat more compact wealth than Alyce had ever seen.

His eyes were not dulled for all the suet in his cheeks, however, and they looked both Taren and Alyce up and down shrewdly as they crossed to him. He did not look at all surprised by her masculine clothing.

"A guest from King's Landing and her escort, magister," the man with the scroll told him by way of introduction.

Taren walked in front of Illyrio and bowed in an odd, old-fashioned way. He spoke to him in the Common Tongue. "Your friend sends his warm regards."

"Just so," Illyrio replied. He turned to the man with the scroll, waved a hand, and instructed in Pentoshi, "Have him fed, washed, paid, and on his way."

"Yes, magister." The man with the scroll escorted Taren out of the veranda and into the manse proper. Illyrio again waved his hand and the guard too disappeared.

Alyce was left alone with Illyrio Mopatis.

She was nervous of this great kingly man, but did not want to stand about like a lackwit while he surveyed her. She took up a nearby cushioned chair and brought in over to face Illyrio, though a little to the left. She took off her pack and shortsword, set them down, sat herself in the chair, crossed her legs, and surveyed him in return.

The man looked like he was chewing on his tongue while he gazed at her. She could tell very little from his expression.

"And so you are my friend's little ward, yes?" he asked in the Common Tongue.

"I am. Or one of them, I'm sure. Is this a space in which we may talk privately?"

"It is." He offered her a divided platter. "Peppers? Grapes?"

"Thank you." She took a small handful of grapes. Undo spice upset her stomach so she avoided the peppers.

"My friend trusts you with a great many things." Illyrio's mouth was cut in a displeased line.

 _And you think it folly._ "Too many things by your account?" She wanted to see if he would admit to it.

"Oh, I trust you can hold your discretion. You are his creature, after all."

"Eight legs and all," she quipped.

He laughed. "Eight legs, yes, just so."

She popped two grapes into her mouth and his eyes traveled over her body in a way that was analytical rather than lustful.

"You are a lovely young woman," he noted, matter-of-factly. "Especially dressed in pants." He laughed a little. "That will help you."

"With my little charge?"

"Just so."

"I had heard his fondness for lovely young women had come to an abrupt end."

"Ah, with whores, to be sure… He spoke to a little jewel of mine trained in a pleasure house of Lys quite viciously just the other evening." He puckered his lips in displeasure. Then his features rearranged and there was a knowing crinkle around his eyes. "But you are an entirely different sort. And beauty unravels all men, yes? Our little friend is no exception."

"I assume that friend is here somewhere?"

"No doubt drinking away the day." Again the displeased line. Alyce was also unimpressed.

"He's a drunkard?"

"Of a certainty… I will see what I can do about it. At the moment, he seems to be slowly killing himself. Inconvenient, as he is needed, yes?"

She nodded. "What would you suggest for me?" she asked him, desirous of his honest advice. "I am to keep him safe, to bodyguard him, but what part should I play? Or should I simply tell him all?"

Illyrio shrugged his thick shoulders. "He needs to learn to trust you. That way he will tell you enough that you can council him away from danger or see his dangers coming. Explaining you have been sent from King's Landing to be his bodyguard will not engender that trust. Too many there deeply wish him dead."

"So I play a part."

"Just so."

"Shall I be one of your household?"

Illyrio nodded slowly, agreeing, considering, his many chins rippling. "But not a servant. He will look down on a servant."

"What do you have here if not servants, magister?" Alyce asked him, sitting back in her cushioned chair. Illyrio had the decency to look somewhat affronted.

"I have guests. Friends, confidants—"

"I should like to take over some of the servant duties of attending the dwarf," she suggested. "That way I can assist and get to know him. It will seem as if you have asked me to take care of him. And then when you depart from us on the way to Volantis, it will seem natural for you to leave me with him as a protector."

"The three of us will soon be traveling to join a small band who are all journeying to Daenerys. It would be natural for you to be another guardian of that group, including Tyrion, because their safe travels to the queen mean a great deal to your benefactor and I."

Alyce nodded. "You are accompanying us to Volantis?"

"Ah," Illyrio sighed, crestfallen. "I will accompany you until we meet with the rest of the group, but then I must turn back. I am slow to travel and can clear the way for the queen much more effectively from Pentos."

She nodded again. "It sounds as though it will be cover enough to avoid the dwarf's suspicion and yet close enough to the truth to make things simple."

"He is passing clever."

"So I have heard." Unconcerned, she placed the last grape she had taken between her lips and into her mouth.

Illyrio smiled a little and waved at her languidly. "I wish you luck and wit, my lovely. We shall speak again soon. If you need me, and if I am at home, a servant can find me for you. You'll likely find your charge unconscious somewhere on the grounds or in his room. Last I heard he was stumbling about the gardens, muttering drunken nonsense."

Alyce inclined her head politely, stood, took up her pack and sword again, and entered the manse. She walked until she found a servant and then asked her in Pentoshi to show her to her room and then to show her to the dwarf's room. She memorized the way as the servant brought her to a room with Myrish carpets soft as new grass and a gorgeous view through heavy open shutters of the front of the grounds below and the sparkling port beyond. The bed was larger than she was used to sleeping in and looked to be goose-down.

She dropped her pack on the bed as well as her shortsword. She knew she was relatively safe in Illyrio's guarded home. Leaving the room, she closed the door behind her, and then blinked as the servant gestured to the door right beside hers.

"This is the dwarf's room here?"

"Yes, er—m'lady."

The corner of Alyce's mouth twitched. _She has no idea what to make of me._

It was convenient his room was so close. The servant left her and she opened the door without knocking but did not find the dwarf of Lannister in his chambers. She rifled through his room briefly but did not find anything that told her anything new about him.

She wound her way toward the back of the manse and left through an intricate set of white-painted doors. She had been right about the gardens. They sprawled across the extensive back grounds of the manse. There were tiled courtyards, pebbled walkways, small fountains, pillared galleries, and green yards. Alyce wandered through them, half looking for the dwarf and half simply looking at the gardens. She could not remember ever seeing a place so luscious and lovely. It still smelled alive and green despite the chill there was in the shade.

She found the dwarf of Lannister slouching propped against a stone pillar on the ground across from a fountain.


	3. III: Wine Red as Blood

…

III.

Wine Red as Blood

 **S** he was glad he was unconscious. If he had been awake, she would have had to conceal her reaction to his appearance, and she did not know if she would have been fully able to.

He was stunted, knobby, and his face bore a scar from one temple to the opposite cheek. Perhaps he could have been somewhat handsome at least in the face originally, but now with a scar diagonal across that face and wearing ill-fitting clothes, he was…hideous.

Alyce's upper lip rose in distaste. _What a nasty little monkey…_ His legs and arms were slightly too short—disproportionally so. Something about the unnaturalness of it made her want to laugh and wince at the same time. His head was slightly too big for his small body and his brow rather heavy. His mouth was hanging open in sleep, giving him a ridiculously stupid expression.

 _Seven hells._

She stood above him in all his _lordly_ glory with her hands on her hips, and suddenly a bark of a laugh burst from her—she couldn't help it. _This is the rightful Lord Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and by marriage law stands to be Lord of Winterfell and Lord Paramount of the North._ Of course, now that he was accused of regicide it was unlikely he would be able to lay claim to anything, even the Rock. His sister the queen would inherit it. And the north would never allow a Lannister to rule them after what his house did to their Lord Stark and his son.

The dwarf had not even twitched at the noise—he was dead to the world. Alyce squatted in front of him. _Varys thinks this disgusting little thing is so important he sent me all the way across the Narrow to serve him. I am now chained to this creature. This Imp. This demon monkey, as he was called in the streets._

Her lip was curled in contempt.

 _I could tuck this wretched thing up under an arm and carry him about like a pet dog. If he remains this drunk all the time, that's just what I'll end up having to do. I shall have a drooling pet monkey lord._

A metal wine cup lay spilled by his hand, the wine leaking out dark as blood. It sobered her thoughts. _His stunted size may make him easier to protect…but it will also make him more in need of protecting. One can lose small things…_

He repulsed her, but she grimaced and forced herself to reach a hand toward him. She lifted his chin with her fingers, her lip curling again.

"Tyrion?"

She received only a vague groan in response. His eyes did not open. Seeing no servants around she could ask to do the job for her, she realized she would have to be the one to carry her charge back into the manse. She growled with irritation and pulled the creature toward her, attempting to be gentle. He was heavier than he looked, but not so much that she could not handle his weight for the walk. As she lifted him to hold him on her hip against her shoulder like a child, he groaned again and opened bleary eyes. His eyes were mismatched colors. She hadn't expected that, and she blinked in surprise.

He lifted a hand to her cheek and touched her there. The touch was tender, his cloudy eyes soft.

She had heard many things about this half-man, but neither gentleness nor warmth had been mentioned in any of it. His soft, cloudy eyes traveled from her cheek to her eyes and he half-smiled before those eyes seemed to become too heavy to hold up. His arm dropped heavily as his head found home against her neck.

His smiles were not horrible, but his eyes were another matter. She did not know which one to look into and it unsettled her. It would take a deal of getting used to, though in the meantime she ought not to let the dwarf see how deeply she misliked his appearance.

She got a couple looks carrying the unconscious Lannister back to his chambers, but most of the household servants she passed merely looked unsurprised. It was likely the dwarf had had to be carried back to his chambers before.

When she returned to his room, the door was open and some women were changing the bedclothes.

Alyce dropped the dwarf rather unceremoniously onto his bed when they were done and asked the women in Pentoshi, "What is generally done with him now?"

One glanced at the other and the other replied, "He's bathed and put to bed."

"Bathe him, then. Or find the person who does."

The other woman—the one who hadn't spoken—nodded her head low and went to fetch someone. The first woman finished cleaning and left. Soon, the other woman returned with a male servant and a pitcher of hot water, and together Alyce and the servant stripped Lannister of his clothes and poured the water on him in the bath. The man scrubbed him down with a soapy cloth including his hair while another man came in with another pitcher of water and they poured it over him to rinse him.

 _He has to be bathed like an infant. Pathetic._ She did not even try to hide her scorn.

When he had been dried, the serving men placed him naked on the bed next to some folded nightclothes and left, closing the door behind them.

Alyce was left alone to watch over her naked and hideous little charge. It was his disproportioned limbs she decided that were the worst thing about him. His arms and legs were thicker and shorter than a child's would be, as if the gods had fashioned a man's body out of mismatched motley. He was small as a boy but the proportions were all off. And the coarse blond hair on his chest and between his legs was certainly not a boy's. She cocked her head. His little prick might not be as little when erect as she would have imagined. Proportionally, it looked to be bigger than expected. But still not quite the common size?

Feeling as though she had spent too long inspecting his flaccid prick, Alyce unfolded the soft nightshirt and pants that had been set out for him and gently eased the dwarf into them. He groaned softly at points, but his eyelids remained closed. He twitched in his sleep like an ugly dog, and Alyce screwed up her features in a wince.

Afterwards, she shut his door and went into her own chambers. She checked on her pack, wary of it being pawed through despite her having burned the letters Varys had given her, and then set out to explore the manse.

She memorized the place as she walked so she could easily make her way through it or out of it if need be. It was an expansive and many-floored place, but once she comprehended the general layout, it was not difficult to navigate. She snagged some fresh bread from the kitchen and ate it as she walked around the grounds. Illyrio was no longer in his veranda seat.

As the sun set, she found a balcony of the manse from which she could watch it set over the water. She sat at a round, tiled table and was surprised and pleased when a servant brought out a platter of supper for her. She thanked him and ate as the sun set, thinking about how all the lands she had ever known were over the horizon of that sunset, about the dwarf, about everything she had read on the voyage, and about Illyrio and his plans.

The supper was excellent. The freshness of the food and the intricate and exotic ways in which it was prepared outmatched anything she had eaten in Westeros. Alyce ate rather more than she had intended and sat back in the balcony chair, contented and full to burst.

A servant came up to her and bowed her head. "Magister Illyrio has asked that you make sure the dwarf does not miss tomorrow's dinner. Magister Illyrio wishes to dine with him alone, although he suggests you listen in to what is said between them."

 _Odd message_. Alyce nodded, pleased that Illyrio had been thoughtful enough to include her in affairs that concerned Tyrion. "Thank you."

She remained on the balcony until the last of the pink and orange sunset light had faded from the sky, enjoying the solitude and luxury of it. The port and the city proper could still be heard from the manse, but it was muffled, and the manse seemed pleasantly removed and sheltered from it. Used to the ever-present throbbing, cut-throat life of King's Landing, the quiet was unfamiliar, but pleasant.

When she went back to her chambers, she first checked in on the dwarf. The lamps had never been lit in his room and he had been left alone to sleep off his stupor. She sat beside him on the bed in the dimness to make sure he was in no danger of slipping out of this world completely. His head twitched and his stubby fingers grasped jerkily at the bedclothes. She wondered if he were dreaming of slaying his father, or that whore he had kept, or perhaps dozens of other evils. Alyce saw evils behind her own eyelids some nights as well.

Attempting gentleness, she brushed some hair from his face, trying to feel protective and tender. He was an ugly, fretful thing, and she felt no stirrings of tenderness toward him other than the drive of duty to Lord Varys that kept her his vigilant guard. She knew that if his temperament was as poor as his face, she would easily despise him.

 _It is our thoughts which make things beautiful and our thoughts which make them ugly._

Her mother had told her that. It had been a rather astute thing to come from the mouth of such a silly woman. Perhaps it had been one of those rare bouts of wisdom that had convinced a warrior king to persuade her with sweet, wine-soaked words to put aside her vows for a night.

Her touch seemed to soothe him slightly. She tried to remember what Varys had told her about the injustices he had seen and his hidden goodness and to use her thoughts to make him more beautiful according to her mother's words.

It did not help.

Sighing, she moved the dwarf onto his side on the bed. She knew drunkards could sometimes drown in their own vomit if left on their backs. He groaned rather pitifully, his fingers twitching again. She touched the fingers and they stilled.

She left the dwarf to sleep and slipped into her own chambers. She left out her soiled clothes on a chest, hoping they might be picked up and washed on the morrow, and snuggled into the softest bed she had ever laid in.

…

Tyrion emerged from his bedchamber early the next day, having slept since late afternoon of the previous one, but almost as soon as he had finished nibbling queasily at breakfast did he find his way down into Illyrio's extensive wine cellar and come back up goblet in hand.

Alyce could do little but surreptitiously watch him as he began to drink away coherency again. She knew he must be conscious for dinner that evening, however, and so when his eyes grew blurry and he called for more wine from a couch in a grand sitting room of the manse, she watered down what she gave him and slipped just a pinch of sleeping powder into his cup.

Almost immediately he was nodding off against the arm of the couch.

"Excuse me—you," she called to a passing manservant. "Carry this man to his chambers." He did as he was bid, and Alyce followed. The servant placed Lannister on his goose-down bed, bowed his head, and left them. Alyce covered the dwarf with some of the bedclothes and closed his curtains tightly. She knew he would sleep off the powder by late afternoon, but she hoped he would continue sleeping and not get up and go after more wine again if the room was dark.

She had lunch with Illyrio in a small, sunny sitting room where she found him. The room's walls were lined with shelves of books—a breathtaking luxury—and the chairs were even more thoroughly cushioned than they were on the veranda. Illyrio seemed to be in a pleasant mood. He had just returned from some sort of business in the city and apparently the news had been good.

"How fairs our little friend?" he asked her in the Common Tongue.

Alyce grimaced. "Determined to stay out of lucidity."

Illryio nodded, a frown crossing his expression like a cloud. "I will have a talk with him about that tonight. You received my message, yes?"

"I did." A servant placed two small platters in front of her and lifted their lids. One was an herbed fillet of fresh fish and the other what looked like succulent honeyed duck. Already on the table was crab pie, fine crumbled cheese, greens dressed with butter and salt, berry tarts, peaches with honey, and half a dozen other small dishes she did not recognize. "I shall wake him before evening, make sure he bathes, and have him brought to you. I'll also spy on the two of you." She smiled at him.

Illyrio nodded, his great chins bobbing. "Just so. Has everything been to your satisfaction?"

"And more," Alyce replied truthfully. Never had she felt so pampered.

As they lunched, Illyrio took delight in showing her morsels of food it seemed likely she had never tasted; Alyce found almost all of them mouth-wateringly delicious. He was in high spirits and told her laughingly about his city, making fun of himself a little in the process. He had a fine sense of humor. His jovial Pentoshi manners were endearing but also somewhat disguised a rather fearless, sharpened wit that Alyce could always feel at the edge of his conversation. He could be a formidable man if he so chose. But his relaxed humor put her enough at ease that her own devious wit came out to play, and she could tell he was pleased by her conversation by the way his eyes crinkled genuinely when he smiled.

Having finished all her books, after lunch Alyce picked an engrossing-looking title from among Illyrio's collection and read by the sunlight in the hours until supper. The book was written in High Valryian, not the Common Tongue of Westeros or one of the bastardized dialects the Free Cities spoke, so the reading was slow for her, but rewarding. It was about the Valyrian Freehold and the Lords Freeholder, powerful noble families who were very strong in magic. The writing focused on one particular family, and Alyce felt drawn to the children—two sisters and a brother who was to become a dragonlord like his father. Alyce knew she technically had brothers and sisters out in the world by her father, but had never known any of them. She would have liked to. The Targaryens were also a family of dragonlords, but this story was not about them, and by this account, they were nowhere near the most powerful of the lords.

As the sun began to approach its descent in the west, she shut her book and returned it to its place. She took up a large glass of water from the table where she and Illyrio had lunched and walked up to the third level of the manse. As she went, she instructed a servant to have hot water sent to her room.

She set the water glass on her bedside table, stripped her outer clothes, and took her hair down. Shortly, three female servants entered with two pitchers of hot water and fresh soap. They left and Alyce stripped naked and climbed into the bronze bathtub. She poured the hot water over her head and body, and while she sat in the tub, she scrubbed herself and washed her hair. When she was finished, she stood and rinsed with the last pitcher before stepping out to dry herself in one of the heavenly soft Myrish towels folded neatly beside the bath. Alyce belted her knives at her waist, but she left her shortsword on her bed, and let her thick, black hair air-dry down and loose from the breeze off the port that blew in as she sat in the window seat.

She rummaged through her medical case and found a small, very thin stick of eye makeup. By the chamber's mirror, she applied just enough to make her eyes more vibrant. She dabbed a touch of perfume at the side of her neck. She then fished out of her medical case a powder which would cure headaches. She set that packet aside by the water glass.

When her hair was dry and soft, spilling in luxurious locks across her shoulders, she took up the water and medicine and went next door to wake her charge for dinner. She found another servant down the hall and instructed water for a bath for the dwarf. Then she slipped inside his bedroom. She set the water and medicine down on his bedside table and opened his shades wide. By the deep evening sunlight, she could see that a new set of clothes and some ointment had been set out for him.

The sudden flood of slanting burnished gold light woke the dwarf. She could hear him rustling in the bed and feel his eyes on her as she opened the shades the rest of the way. She turned and appraised him with one hand on her hip.

He spoke first. "You're very different from the other one. If one whore doesn't please, find her opposite, eh?" His voice was hoarse but his sneer was not softened by lingering sleepiness. She had expected a childish, ugly voice to match his looks, but his voice was surprisingly smooth. It had an eloquence to it due to his high birth that a sneering comment could not entirely mask. He was unabashedly eyeing her hips and thighs, the curves of which were displayed by her pants in a way she was sure he did not often see. But his shrewd gaze also lingered on the unfeminine hardness of her arm muscles and the knives sheathed at her hip.

"You can find someone else to bury your cock in," she told him without heat in Pentoshi. "I'm here to make sure you're bathed and not late for dinner."

The door opened and three female servants trooped in with two heavy pitchers of hot water, another slim shaving of fresh soap, and fresh towels. They left again without a word.

Lannister sat up in bed, groaning. "I need to piss," he announced. He remained in the Common Tongue.

Alyce jerked her head to indicate the chamber pot and switched to the Common Tongue. "Afterword you'll drink that entire glass of water I brought for you. There's also a headache cure beside it."

He grunted noncommittally as he stood with his back toward her and relieved himself with a satisfied sigh. He tucked his cock back in his pants and watched her open a window to coax in some fresh air.

"And who are you to give me orders, sweetling?" he asked without tenderness. He made for the water glass, however, and began to drink it.

"Alyce. I'm to help make sure you and the magister make it safely where you're going."

"And where is that?"

"I'm sure Illyrio will tell you at dinner. Finish the water or you're sure to pass out over the second course."

The dwarf smirked and took a few gulps of water. He ripped open the paper packet of powder and tipped it into his mouth. He washed it down with the rest of the glass.

"I take it you're bathing me?"

"You're bathing yourself."

He sighed as he stripped off his clothes. "You can tell Illyrio I want the blonde one back."

"I'm not a raven."

He glanced at her shrewdly, fully naked. She watched him with a bored expression as he came toward her and climbed into the tub. She poured the first pitcher of warm water slowly over him and he lathered a cloth in soap and set to scrubbing himself. She sat back on her heels and watched him expressionlessly.

"You're not Pentoshi." It was not a question.

"Neither are you. I've only been here less than two years."

"In Illyrio's service?"

"As you see."

He was struggling to reach his back, and she gently took the cloth from him and scrubbed it for him. He looked surprised but pleased and allowed her to finish his back and his hair.

"Your accent is of Westeros."

"It is."

He closed his eyes as she worked the soap into his hair. Doing so, she massaged his scalp to take the impudence out of her words. It was odd for her to speak to a lord in such a familiar manner, but she rather enjoyed it.

"Tell me," the dwarf sighed, leaning his head back into her hands, "where do whores go?"

"Where the gold is, I imagine," she replied. _What an odd question._

"And where is the gold?" he pressed.

"You should know that better than most, I should think."

He wiped water away from his eyes and turned slightly to look at her. Such a response might imply she knew him to be a Lannister of wealthy Casterly Rock and perhaps even the crown's old Master of Coin. She met his eyes with a knowing and contesting arch of her eyebrows.

She stood and picked up the other now-lukewarm pitcher. Lannister stood to have the soap rinsed off of him. His cock was somewhat hard, and she saw she had been correct in thinking that it was larger than what would be proportional. It pleased her that merely their conversation and her hands on his back and head had begun to arouse him. Desire was useful. It could manipulate.

She handed him a soft towel as he wiped water from his face.

"Your clothes are there atop the chest," she told him. He glanced at her, looking annoyed she would not be dressing him.

The clothes were boy's clothes, and they were too tight in the chest and too long in the arms and legs. Alyce rolled the pant legs for him. When he forced the shirt over his head, he pulled uncomfortably at the tight neckline.

"Hold still," Alyce told him, drawing one of her smaller knives from its sheath. The dwarf's eyes widened, especially when that dagger neared his neck. "Keep still or I'll nick you." She cut a short, even line up the top front of the shirt that freed his neck and did not look terribly amiss. She sheathed the knife again and stood.

"Thank you. Could you hand me that ointment there on the chest?" he asked her.

She nodded and did so. He messaged some onto his red ankles.

"Are they often sore?" she asked him.

He grunted in affirmation. She took the ointment back from him and resolved to later pack it away in her bag for him. Lannister rubbed his hands off on a towel.

Illyrio was reclining on a padded couch when they reached him, gobbling pearl onions from a wooden bowl. She and Illyrio nodded to each other, and she left them, but she doubled back another way and stood listening against a hall wall. Her wall was not on the way to and from the kitchens so the servants did not come upon her.

She was bored for some time while they ate their supper as there was very little talk, and only about trifles. The scents from their food made her hungry, though she had eaten very well earlier in the day. _I can see how Illyrio has grown so fat here. I have never eaten such food._

Finally Lannister asked after the morning's summons as what smelled like pork was carved for them.

"There are troubles in the east," Illyrio told him. "Astapor has fallen, and Meeren. Ghiscari slave cities that were old when the world was young."

"Slaver's Bay is a long way from Pentos," came the dwarf's voice.

"This is so. But the world is one great web, and a man dare not touch a single strand lest all the others tremble. More wine? No, something better."

Alyce heard the sound of a serving man entering and a dish being placed on the table. Annoyed, she assumed they would start another course.

"Mushrooms," the magister announced. "Kissed with garlic and bathed in butter. I am told the taste is exquisite. Have one, my friend. Have two."

After a moment's pause, Lannister's voice answered him in an odd tone, "After you, my lord." The plate scraped across the table. Alyce cocked her head.

"No, no." The platter was pushed back across the table once more. "After you, I insist. Cook made them especially for you." Illyrio had a deviant edge to his voice.

 _What does he mean by this?_

"Did she indeed? That was kind of her, but…no."

"You are too suspicious. Are you craven? I had not heard that of you."

"In the Seven Kingdoms it is considered a grave breach of hospitality to poison your guest at supper."

"Here as well. Yet when a guest plainly wishes to end his own life, why, his host must oblige him, no? Magister Ordello was poisoned by a mushroom not half a year ago. The pain is not so much, I am told. A cramping in the gut, a sudden aching behind the eyes, and it is done. Better a mushroom than a sword through your neck, is it not so? Why die with the taste of blood in your mouth when it could be butter and garlic?"

"You mistake me," the dwarf said to him after a brief pause.

"Is it so? I wonder. If you would sooner drown in wine, say the word and it shall be done, and quickly. Drowning cup by cup wastes time and wine both."

Alyce grinned slightly. Illyrio was terribly clever.

"You mistake me," she heard Lannister say again, more loudly. "I have no wish to die, I promise you. I have…"

"You have nothing," Illyrio finished for him, "but we can change that." There was a paused, then Illyrio murmured, "Hmm, delicious."

"The mushrooms are not poisoned." The dwarf sounded irritated.

"No. Why should I wish you ill? We must show a little trust, you and I. Come, eat. We have work to do. My little friend must keep his strength up."

Again, talk was little as they ate.

"You drink a deal of wine for such a little man," Illyrio observed. _Ugh._

"Kinslaying is dry work. It gives a man a thirst."

"There are those in Westeros who would say that killing Lord Lannister was merely a good beginning."

"They best not say it in my sister's hearing or they will find themselves short a tongue."

"How odd that you should mention your fair sister. The queen has offered a lordship to the man who brings her your head, no matter how humble his birth."

"If you mean to take her up on it, make her spread her legs for you as well. The best part of me for the best part of her, that's a fair trade."

Alyce smirked. _He is a witty thing_ _when he's at least partly sober._

"I would sooner have mine own weight in gold." Illyrio laughed hard. "All the gold in Casterly Rock, why not?"

"The gold I grant you," Lannister said, "but Casterly Rock is mine."

"Just so." Illyrio belched mightily. "Do you think King Stannis will give it to you? I am told he is a great one for the law. Your brother wears the white cloak, so you are the heir by all the laws of Westeros."

"Stannis might well grant me Casterly Rock," the dwarf replied, "but for the small matter of regicide and kinslaying. For those he would shorten me by a head, and I am short enough as I stand. But why would you think I mean to join Lord Stannis?"

"Why else would you go to the Wall?"

"Stannis is at the Wall? What in seven bloody hells is Stannis doing at the Wall?"

"Shivering, I would think," Illyrio said. "It is warmer down in Dorne. Perhaps he should have sailed that way."

"My niece Myrcella is in Dorne, as it happens. And I have half a mind to make her a queen."

"What has this poor child done to you that you would wish her dead?"

"Even a kinslayer is not required to slay all his kin. Queen her, I said. Not kill her."

"In Volantis," replied Illyrio, "they use a coin with a crown on one face and a death's head on the other. Yet it is the same coin. To queen her is to kill her. Dorne might rise for Myrcella, but Dorne alone is not enough. If you are as clever as our friend insists, you know this."

The dwarf paused briefly before replying, "Futile gestures are all that remain to me. This one would make my sister weep bitter tears, at least."

"The road to Casterly Rock does not go through Dorne, my little friend. Nor does it run beneath the Wall. Yet there is such a road, I tell you."

 _Daenerys._

"I am an attainted traitor, a regicide, and a kinslayer." His voice was brittle and angry. Obviously he did not believe there was such a road.

"What one king does, another may undo. In Pentos, we have a prince, my friend. He presides at ball and feast and rides about the city in a palanquin of ivory and gold. On the first day of each new year he must deflower the main of the fields and the maid of the seas. Yet should a crop fail or a war be lost, we cut his throat to appease the gods and chose a new prince from amongst the forty families."

"Remind me never to become the Prince of Pentos."

"Are your Seven Kingdoms so different? There is no peace is Westeros, no justice, no faith…and soon enough, no food. When men are starving and sick of fear they look for a savior."

"They may look, but if all they find is Stannis—"

"Not Stannis. Nor Myrcella. Another. Stronger than Tommen, gentler than Stannis, with a better claim than Myrcella. A savior come from across the sea to bind up the wounds of bleeding Westeros."

"Fine words. Words are wind. Who is this bloody savior?"

"A dragon." Illyrio laughed. "A dragon with three heads."


	4. IV: East Through Andalos

…

IV.

East Through Andalos

" **I** am taking this," she told him firmly in their native tongue. "And you are not getting it back."

Alyce pulled the goblet right out of his hand and poured its contents unceremoniously off the balcony. It splattered redly far below them. She then sat next to him in a cushioned chair and put her boots up on the railing.

The dwarf frowned at her. His eyes were already a little unfocused. After his supper with Illyrio, he had taken a large goblet of wine from the table and had come out on a nearby balcony to drink it. He had already been drinking at dinner.

"I was only going to get a little _slightly_ drunk, no more." He sounded dark, as if he were making fun of himself.

"I don't care. We're all leaving on the morrow and you need to have your stomach for the journey."

He sighed. "Your master has you policing me?"

Alyce slammed a fist down on the stone table between them and made the dwarf flinch in shock. "He is not my master. And one would think your own self-respect would keep you from making a bloody drunken arse of yourself."

That seemed to shame him. He brooded on his own thoughts for a time. The setting sun across the water glowed red and the light made Alyce's black hair look shining scarlet, like blood. The dwarf gazed at her lit by that light for a time. Alyce moved her gaze from the shining port to stare unaffectedly back at him. The slanting light highlighted his scars, but it also made his curly dirty-golden hair a deeper, shinier hue. His mismatched eyes each held the remembrance of pain and a touch of weariness. He was drunk. She looked away from him.

"Where were you born?" he asked her.

"Neither of us wish to answer personal questions, Tyrion," she told him gently. She supposed she ought to start using his name. People liked to hear their own names, and she reckoned this creature was overly tired of being "Dwarf."

"I can tell you where _I_ was born. A tower of Casterly Rock in my mother's blood and screams." His voice was still dark and sardonic. His tone was his shield.

"All children are born of blood and screaming."

"Mine involved a bit _more_ blood than usual."

"What was her name?"

"She was the Lady Joanna."

"I'm sorry for you. All dwarves should at the very least have mothers."

He smirked. "Yes, at least one person to love them." He glanced at her. "And your mother? I've answered _two_ things now and you haven't told me _anything_."

"She was a noblewoman of Dorne. Or a septa. Or a whore. Or Illyrio's dead wife. If you cannot spot truth from lie, what's the point of asking?"

Tyrion leaned back in his chair. "True enough," he admitted. He reached for the goblet Alyce had placed on the tiny table between them and looked disappointed to find only droplets in it. He set it back down.

When the sun slipped below their sight, its light disappeared from the reflective water of the port and it grew chilly.

"I should rest for tomorrow morning," she told him, standing. "Not all of us get to travel in Magister Illyrio's private litter." She had seen it being prepared earlier that day. "Will you accompany me back to the third floor rooms?"

"I would be honored." His tone was hollow; there was no feeling in it and his courtesies were empty. He did not hold out his arm, as the gesture would be absurd, but Alyce slowed her pace to match his short, waddling strides and they walked together through the manse.

"This is your room, I believe," she told him as they found his bedchamber door in the dimming light in the manse.

"So it is."

"Goodnight, Tyrion."

He glanced up at her, slight suspicion in his eyes. Perhaps he thought she was being courteous to make fun of him.

"Goodnight."

They parted.

…

They departed Illyrio's manse by the postern gate and the kennels.

Their procession was a loaded one—a large, purple velvet litter for Illyrio and Tyrion, mules to carry chests, casks, barrels, as well as hampers of delectables to keep Illyrio from growing peckish. There were men and guards on horseback to guide and guard the train. A team of four horses also pulled a now-empty wagon at the tail end.

Alyce was given an extremely fine speckled gray mare with a soft and luxurious saddle. Even with such a good saddle she knew she still might have saddle sores by the end of the trek, but she was grateful for the comfort all the same. She tied her pack up behind her saddle and waited as patiently as possible for the procession to commence out of the city. Tyrion and Illyrio entered the litter that was carried by eight sturdy mules, a servant served them a platter of spiced sausages and a small pitcher of dark smokeberry brown, and they began on their slow way out of the Sunrise Gate to the _clop-clopping_ of ironshod hooves on hard Valyrian road.

Alyce kept fairly close to the litter to hear some of what passed between Tyrion and Illyrio. Whatever the two of them did not eat from their platters or pitches was immediately after offered to her, and so she was fed well. Her horse was calm and dutiful, and the autumn when the sun was out was nice enough to go without a cloak, so she left it draped across her lap. The horsemen mainly kept to themselves, so she was a bit lonely, but what she could catch of her charge's conversation entertained her enough. Tyrion's reputation for cleverness was not undeserved. She found herself enjoying his conversation—his words were never disappointing. She listened closely, thinking about the way he thought, learning him.

What Illyrio had to say of Varys interested her a great deal, as well. She learned quite a bit about Lord Varys' past from listening in. The truth of Illyrio's tales was, as always, questionable, however.

When night fell and they had stopped to allow Illyrio to relieve himself and change teams, Alyce handed off her mare to a horseman and climbed into the wagon with her pack. It was padded to allow Illyrio's household guards who were traveling with them to have a few hours' rest in shifts. One of them joined her in the wagon, and Alyce expected to have to rebuff some attempt at seduction, having grown up in King's Landing where it seemed like a man only spoke to a woman as if they were sheaths for their cocks. The man said nothing to her, however, and went to sleep in the back of the wagon. Either the men of Pentos were more chivalrous or the threat of Illyrio's displeasure was expansively protective.

She at first found it difficult to sleep, but after half an hour she eventually dozed off. She did not awaken fully again until that next morning, and when they stopped next to change teams, she found her new allotted horse with an equally cushioned saddle and rode her beside the litter. She was served breakfast: boiled eggs and roasted larks stuffed with garlic and onion.

In good spirits, she ate happily and watched the scenery pass by. She was certainly seeing more than Tyrion was from the litter in all its luxury. Eventually, however, there came to be nothing to see but ochre fields, bare brown elms, and the road itself stretching straight into their horizon. Alyce drank a few cups of sweet brown ale to warm her and make her head buzz pleasantly.

They changed teams twice that day and there was not much talk between Tyrion and Illyrio as Illyrio slept, but she could tell Tyrion was drinking too much by the way pitchers of wine disappeared. As she rode, Alyce hummed a tune that had always stayed with her.

Once he and Illyrio were awake there was interesting conversation. She learned a little about one of the men they'd be traveling with—named Griff—and about the Golden Company. Pieces, anyway. The wind took some of their words and the velvet muffled others.

When they stopped again to change horses and Illyrio sent for a fresh hamper of food, Tyrion asked how far they had come and Alyce learned they had entered Andalos. _Andalos_. Had anyone she knew traveled so far east? It was like journeying into the past and into stories and the _Seven-Pointed Star_.

The men that lived out here were bound to the land, tillers and toilers. There were orchards, farms, mines, and ruins. She listened as Tyrion and Illyrio slept, woke, talked, drank. Illyrio snored. At night, Alyce again passed off her horse, slept with her weapons beneath her bedding so they would not be stolen, and woke to find a new mount the next morning. She ate olives, tarts, and other delicious things as they traveled. Tyrion had drunk too much the night before and Illyrio babied him.

Days passed the same. They eventually left the Flatlands and headed into the Velvet Hills.

"Half the whores in Lannisport have bigger breasts than these hills," commented Tyrion. "They should be called the Velvet Teats." They saw a circle of standing stones that Illyrio claimed had been raised by giants, and later a deep lake. The next evening they came upon a huge Valyrian sphinx crouched beside the road. It had a dragon's body and woman's face.

"A dragon queen," said Tyrion. "A pleasant omen." He smiled up at Alyce who was riding beside his side of the litter.

"Her king is missing." Illyrio pointed out the smooth stone plinth on which the second sphinx once stood, now grown over with moss. "The horselords built wooden wheels beneath him and dragged him back to Vaes Dothrak."

That night, drunker than usual, Tyrion broke into sudden song. 

_He rode through the streets of the city,  
Down from his hill on high,  
O'er the wynds and the steps and the cobbles,  
He rode to a woman's sigh.  
For she was his secret treasure,  
She was his shame and his bliss.  
And a chain and a keep are nothing,  
Compared to a woman's kiss._

…

"What is that tune, my lady?" Tyrion asked her, sticking his head out of the litter's curtain. "It is not one I know."

Illyrio had begun to snore half an hour ago. It was still early afternoon, and the sun was breaking in and out of greyish clouds, thrusting pale yellow down like spears. Tyrion was not as drunk yet as he became later in the evenings.

Alyce shrugged. "A woodworker I knew as a child sang it." She looked out over the low hills. "He was a huge man, and unhappy. He never sang when he worked in his shop, but in the evenings he would whittle at something and he would always sing the song under his breath."

She glanced back at him. "I can sing it, if you'd like, but I'm no minstrel. In fact, I've been told I sing poorly."

Tyrion smiled his misshapen smile. "Anything but the cheesemonger's snores would be most welcome."

She shifted a bit in the saddle and looked out across the hills again. She had no vanities about her voice and so was able to sing in an careless, unaffected manner to the little lord.

" _I'm sailing away, my own true love,  
I'm sailing away in the morning.  
Is there something I can send you from across the sea,  
From the place where I'll be landing?_

 _No, there's nothing you can send me, my own true love,  
For there's nothing I wish to be owning,  
Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled  
From across that lonesome ocean._

 _I just thought you might want something fine,  
Made of silver or maybe golden,  
Either from the mountains of the Marches,  
Or from the coast of the Thousand Islands._

 _If I had the stars from the darkest night,  
And the diamonds from the deepest ocean,  
I'd forsake them all for your sweet kiss,  
For that's all I wish to be owning. _

_Well I might be gone a long, long time.  
It is only that I'm asking,  
Is there something I can send you to remember me by,  
To make your time more easy passing?_

 _How can, how can you ask me again?  
It only brings me sorrow.  
The same thing I want from you today  
I would want again tomorrow._

 _Oh, I got a letter on a lonesome day  
It was from her ship a-sailing  
Saying 'I don't know when I'll be coming back again  
It depends on how I'm feeling.'_

 _Well, if you, my love, must think that way,  
I'm sure your mind is roaming,  
I'm sure your heart is not with me,  
But with the country to where you're going._

 _So take heed, take heed of the western wind,  
Take heed of the stormy weather,  
And yes, there's something you can send back to me:  
Mryish boots of Myrish leather _."

Tyrion was frowning at her. "A sad song," he announced, "to be your tune. A sad song for a sad man. Leave it behind and give me _Six Maids in a Pool_. Now that's a proper tune."

Alyce obliged him with a bit of a laugh and took a great breath to sing out the merrier song.

" _Six maids in a pool, of noble blood,  
One Fool, but great, on the shore.  
He'd seen that flower full of love—  
'She'll be in my garden,' he'd sworn…"_


	5. V: Old Valyrian Road

…

V.

Old Valyrian Road

 **T** yrion drank himself through the climb toward Ghoyan Drohe upon the Little Rhoyne. Alyce was a little irritated with Illyrio for allowing him to have it all, but the fat man drank just as much as the dwarf. She supposed the only way to stand sitting still in a litter for days and days was to eat and drink oneself to sleep.

When he was not sleeping and Illyrio was, Tyrion would often pin the litter curtain back and talk to her. They talked of the history of the land they were passing through, and both of them seemed pleased by how well educated their conversational partner was. Tyrion pried her a little about her knowledge of where they were headed and the people they were traveling to meet, and Alyce was able to answer honestly, because she knew as little as he did.

Though he drank a great deal, his wit did not suffer overly much. At times he grew cruder, but his words still flowed smoothly, though sometimes thickly. They traded japes about the events of the Seven Kingdoms and the late kings, and Alyce found that whenever he grew weary or too drunk to continue their discussions, and let the curtain fall back, she was disappointed that he had. She enjoyed verbally sparring with him, and when she looked ahead of them and listened to his voice only, she could forget how pathetic and ugly he looked.

She was pleased to come to understand that there was a great deal more to this dwarf than his frightful appearance. Before, she had had doubts as to whether or not she would ever even begin to respect him, but now she knew that Varys' assurances to her had the right of things. The dwarf was clever and droll, though his japes often had a darkened bite to them that spoke of a weary and embittered mind. He knew a startling amount of information about history, the lands they were traveling through, and recent events in the Kingdoms, and his extensive knowledge could only have come from a great deal of study. Alyce was one of the most studied people she herself knew, but she knew her understandings did not match up to all the knowledge this Lannister was in possession of. She respected his mind and his keen eye and even keener wit. Their conversations when Illyrio was sleeping became the times Alyce most looked forward to as they traveled.

She enjoyed eating Tyrion and Illyrio's delicious uneaten food as they rode as well, and she was able to get the exercise she needed whenever they changed teams. Horsemen's sons eyed her and talked her up with interest. She sometimes did some exercises when they stopped to let Illyrio piss—which was often. The man had a tiny bladder. As they got closer to their destination, she traded ale for plain water and stayed alert. She would soon be on her own in this new land without Illyrio Mopatis as protection.

Before they reached the Little Rhoyne, a group of riders in boiled leather and dark wool cloaks intercepted them. Watching them approach, Alyce put a hand to her shortsword's hilt, but neither party appeared to be concerned about the other. One of the men spoke briefly to the head of Illyrio's guard that had accompanied them the whole way, and while he was doing so, Alyce said loudly enough for him to hear in his litter, "Illyrio, there are some riders here."

Illyrio stuck his head out of the litter and looked. He grinned widely. "Good! Good, here were are." Alyce relaxed. The team had stopped and Illyrio was helped out of the litter by the riders and a servant. Since she did not hear Tyrion's voice, she assumed he was still asleep.

Illyrio stretched his massive legs briefly and then took the men aside, clapping one on the back. They were both a head taller than he. The taller of the two of them was brawny with a shaggy beard and a shock of orange hair. The other was older, clean-shaved, with a lined, ascetic face, almond-shaped eyes, and hair pulled back in a knot behind his head.

Alyce could not make out their conversation. She had been trained for a few days in reading lips at the tail end of her languages education, but she could not make out enough that was cohesive.

She looked away quickly when she saw Illyrio point her out. When she looked back, one of the men was speaking to Illyrio but looking at her and he did not look pleased. She saw her name on Illyrio's lips as well as "dwarf." They argued briefly, but whatever Illyrio said to convince him seemed to appease him, and they moved on to other topics.

Alyce dismounted, stretched, and lifted a curtain on the litter. Tyrion was slouched against a cushioned corner, sleeping with his mouth slack. She rolled her eyes and let the velvet drapes fall again. She walked back to her horse and stroked the mare's head and between her eyes gently. She checked the bit and her shoes. When she looked up, Illyrio was coming back over to her with the two riders. Alyce walked forward to meet them.

"Alyce, this is Haldon Halfmaester and Ser Rolly Duckfield," Illyrio introduced. "They'll be taking the dwarf and yourself the rest of the way to the Little Rhoyne to the rest of the group and your river steed, the _Shy Maid_."

 _Their names sound like made-up storybook ones_. Alyce nodded once. "It's good to meet you." She stood tall meeting their eyes with her shoulders back, knowing first impressions were important, and if she would be traveling with these two men, she would have to earn their respect and friendship quickly. She was a good actress and she could fake confidence until she actually felt it. A woman dressed in masculine clothes with defined arm muscles was a strange creature already—she could not afford to add incompetence to that impression. Haldon Halfmaester's eyes were gray and shrewd; Ser Rolly's were wide and cheery despite his formidable size.

"It'll be good to have another sword with us on our trip," Ser Rolly said to her, smiling in a friendly way. She could see in his eyes that he found her attractive and interesting. He gestured toward her shortsword. "Can you wield it well?"

"I'd say you should try me, but with that arm of yours you'd beat it dented in half a minute," she replied. _Everyone likes flattery_. Rolly had broad, hugely-muscled shoulders and a broad bastard sword. He was not the sort of man to play-fight.

Rolly grinned. "Aye."

"So you'll have to take my word for it." She smiled back. Haldon's expression she saw was still reserved. He would be more difficult to win.

"I see you have pack horses—I have mules for the supplies, and Alyce's mare—" Illyrio stopped when they all heard Tyrion's loud voice.

He had swung his short legs of the litter and hopped to the ground. "I need a piss," he announced. He waddled off the road and relieved himself into a tangle of thorns. It took a rather long time and they were all silent.

When he was done, Haldon observed, "He pisses well, at least."

Tyrion tucked himself away and turned back. "Pissing is the least of my talents. You ought to see me shit." He walked up to them and looked up at Illyrio. "Are these two known to you, Magister? They look like outlaws. Should I find my axe?"

"Your axe!" exclaimed Rolly, smirking. "Did you hear that, Haldon? The little man wants to fight with us!"

"Small men oft feel a need to prove their courage with unseemly boasts. I doubt if he could kill a duck."

Tyrion shrugged. "Fetch the duck."

"If you insist." Haldon looked to Rolly. Rolly unsheathed his bastard sword. "I'm Duck, you mouthy little pisspot."

Tyrion backpedalled. "I had a smaller duck in mind."

Ser Rolly roared with laughter. "Did you hear, Haldon? He wants a _smaller_ Duck!"

"I should gladly settle for a quieter one." Haldon Halfmaester studied Tyrion with cool gray eyes before turning back to Illyrio. "You have some chests for us?"

"And mules to carry them."

"Mules are too slow. We have pack horses—we'll shift the chests to them. Duck, attend to that."

"Why is it always Duck who attends to things?" He slipped his sword back in its sheath. "What do _you_ attend to, Haldon? Who is the knight here, you or me?" Yet he stomped off toward the baggage mules all the same.

"How fares our lad?" asked Illyrio as the chests were being secured. There were six oaken chests with iron clasps and Ser Rolly lifted them easily, hoisting them onto one shoulder.

"He is as tall as Griff now. Three days ago he knocked Duck into a horse trough."

"I wasn't knocked. I fell in just to make him laugh."

"Your ploy was a success," said Haldon. "I laughed myself."

"There is a gift for the boy in one of the chests. Some candied ginger. He was always fond of it." Illyrio sounded oddly sad. "I thought I might continue on to Ghoyan Drohe with you. A farewell feast before you start downriver…"

"We have no time for feasts, my lord," said Haldon. "Griff means to strike downriver the instant we are back. News has been coming upriver, none of it good. Dothraki have been seen north of Dagger Lake, outriders from old Motho's _khalasar_ , and Khal Zekko is not far behind him, moving through the Forest of Qohor."

Illyrio made a rude noise. "Zekko visits Qohor every three or four years. The Qokorik give him a sack of gold and he turns east again. As for Motho, his men are near as old as he is, and there are fewer every year. The threat is—"

"—Khal Pono," Haldon finished. "Motho and Zekko flee from him, if the tales are true. The last reports had Pono near the headwaters of the Selhoru with a _khalasar_ of thirty thousand. Griff does not want to risk being caught up in the crossing if Pono should decide to risk the Rhoyne." Haldon glanced at Alyce. "May she keep the horse or will she need one of ours?"

"She can ride the mare," Illyrio answered. Alyce went back a few yards to her horse and tied her pack to her, still listening to the conversation. Haldon's attention had moved to Tyrion.

"Does your dwarf ride as well as he pisses?"

Alyce doubted it. _He can't reach the spurs_.

"He rides," Tyrion broke in, before Illyrio could answer for him, "though he rides best with a special saddle and a horse that he knows well. He talks as well."

Alyce reached them again with her mare's reins in hand.

"So he does. I am Haldon, the healer in our little band of brothers. Some call me Halfmaester. My companion is Ser Duck."

"Ser Rolly," said the big man. "Rolly Duckfield. Any knight can make a knight and Griff made me. And you, dwarf?"

Illyrio spoke up quickly, "Yollo, he is called."

"In Pentos I am Yollo," Tyrion added, "but my mother named me Hugor Hill."

"Are you a little king or a little bastard?" asked Haldon.

Alyce glanced at the Halfmaester. _That was shrewd_.

"Every dwarf is a bastard in his father's eyes."

"No doubt. Well, Hugor Hill, answer me this. How did Serwyn of the Mirror Shield slay the dragon Urrax?"

"He approached behind his shield. The dragon only saw his own reflection until Serwyn plunged his spear through his eye."

Haldon was unimpressed. "Even Duck knows that tale. Can you tell me the name of the knight who tried the same ploy with Vhagar during the Dance of the Dragons?"

Tyrion grinned. "Ser Byron Swann. He was roasted for his trouble. Only the dragon was Syrax, not Vhagar."

"I fear that you are mistaken. In _The Dance of Dragons, A True Telling_ , Maester Munken writes—"

"—that it was Vhagar. Grand Maester Munkun errs. Ser Byron's squire saw his master die, and wrote his daughter of the manner of it. His account says it was Syrax, Rhaenyra's she-dragon, which makes more sense than Munken's version. Swann was the son of a marcher lord, and Storm's End was for Aegon. Vhagar was ridden by Prince Aemond, Aegon's brother. Why would Swann want to slay her?"

Haldon pursed his lips. "Try not to tumble off the horse. If you do, best waddle back to Pentos. Our _Shy Maid_ will not wait for man nor dwarf."

"Shy maids are my favorite sort. Aside from wanton ones. Tell me, where do whores go?"

 _That question again._

"Do I look like a man who frequents whores?"

Duck laughed derisively. "He don't dare. Lemore would make him pray for pardon, the lad would want to come along, and Griff might cut his cock off and stuff it down his throat."

"Well," said Tyrion, "a maester does not need a cock."

"Haldon's only half a maester, though."

"You seem to find the dwarf amusing, Duck," said Haldon. He himself looked anything but amused. "He can ride with you." He then wheeled his mount about and left them.

"Between the two riders here," Tyrion said to them, looking up at each. "One is an exceedingly more appealing riding companion." He smirked.

Alyce caught his meaning and rolled her eyes. "Up you get, then, dwarf," she said. She bent to pick him up and hoisted him under his arms up onto the front of her saddle. "Hold tight to the pommel." When he looked secure, she swung up behind him, securing him to her with one arm while she held the reins in her other. They waited a few more moments for Duck to finish tying Illyrio's chests to the three pack horses. By that time, Haldon had vanished. Duck seemed unconcerned. He swung into the saddle, gathered the reins in his right and the leads in his left, and set off at a brisk trot.

"Good fortune," Illyrio called after them. "Tell the boy I am sorry I will not be with him for his wedding. I will rejoin you in Westeros. That I swear by my sweet Serra's hands."

The last they saw of Illyrio Mopatis, the magister was standing by his litter in his brocade robes, his massive shoulders slumped. As his figure dwindled in their dust, the man looked almost small.

They caught up to Haldon Halfmaester a quarter mile on. Thereafter they continued side by side. Alyce noted that she and Tyrion were both relatively comfortable sharing a saddle, but in front of either of these men, he would have had to cling to the high pommel without any kind of proper seat.

"I wonder what the pirates of Dagger Lake will make of our dwarf?" Haldon said as they rode on.

"Dwarf stew?" suggested Duck.

"Urho the Unwashed is the worst of them," Haldon confided. "His stench alone is enough to kill a man. And if we should encounter the Lady Korra on Hag's Teeth, you may soon be lacking parts. Korra the Cruel, they call her. Her ship is crewed by beautiful young maids who geld every male they capture."

 _They could try_ , Alyce thought darkly.

"Terrifying. I may well piss my breeches. Although if we should encounter this Lady Korra, perhaps I will just slip into a skirt and say that I am Cersei, the famous bearded beauty of King's Landing."

Alyce was surprised he would be so bold as to make a reference to his sister, but she kept her expression carefully blank.

Duck laughed, and Haldon said, "What a droll little fellow you are, Yollo. They say that the Shrouded Lord will grant a boon to any man that can make him laugh. Perhaps his Gray Grace will choose you to ornament his stony court."

Duck glanced uneasily at Haldon. "It's not good to jape of that one, not when we're so near to the Rhoyne. He hears."

"Wisdom from a duck," said Haldon. "I beg your pardon, Yollo. You need not look so pale, I was only playing with you. The Prince of Sorrows does not bestow his gray kiss lightly."

Alyce felt Tyrion shift uncomfortably and he made no reply. Like him, she did not like traveling so near a place so infested with grayscale. To be taken over by the disease was to die slowly, an outcast.

Duck was the sort that liked to talk, and before long he began to regale them with his own life's story. His father had been an armorer at Bitterbridge, so he had taken to swordplay at an early age. Such a large and likely lad drew the eye of Lord Caswell, who offered him a place in his garrison, but the boy had wanted more. He watched as Caswell's weakling son was named a page, a squire, and finally a knight. "A weedy pinch-faced sneak, he was, but the old lord had four daughters and only one son, so no one was allowed to say a word against him. T'other squires hardly dared to lay a finger on him in the yard."

"You were not so timid, though," Tyrion guessed.

"My father made me a longsword for me to mark my sixteenth nameday," said Duck, "but Lorrent liked the look of it so much he took it for himself, and my bloody father never dared to tell him no. When I complained, Lorrent told me to my face that my hand was made to hold a hammer, not a sword. So I went and got a hammer and beat him with it, till both his arms and half his ribs were broken. After that I had to leave the Reach, quick as it were. I made it across the water to the Golden Company. I did some smithing for a few years as a 'prentice, then Ser Harry Strickland took me on as a squire. When Griff sent word downriver that he needed someone to help train his son to arms, Harry sent him me."

"And Griff knighted you?"

"A year later."

Haldon Halfmaester smiled a thin smile. "Tell our little friend how you came by your name, why don't you?"

"A knight needs more than just the one name," the big man insisted, "and, well, we were in a field when he dubbed me, and I looked up and saw these ducks, so…don't laugh, now."

After sunset, they left the road to rest in an overgrown yard beside an old stone well. Alyce swung down from the mare and lifted Tyrion off and to the ground. They both stretched their legs and backs; Alyce was accustomed to the soreness after having ridden days with Illyrio's train but stretching relieved it a bit. She stroked her horse and led her to where Duck and Haldon were watering theirs. Tough brown grass and weed trees sprouted from the gaps between the cobbles, and the mossy walls of what might once have been a huge stone manse. After the animals had been tended to, the riders shared a simple supper of salt pork and cold white beans, washed down with a little ale. The plain fare felt a pleasant change after all the rich food.

"Those chests we brought you," Tyrion said as they were chewing. "Gold for the Golden Company I thought at first, until I saw Ser Rolly hoist a chest onto one shoulder."

"It's just armor," said Duck with a shrug.

"Clothing as well," added Haldon. "Court clothes, for all our party. Fine woolens, velvets, silken cloaks. One does not come before a queen looking shabby…nor empty-handed. The magister has been kind enough to provide us with suitable gifts."

Come moonrise, they were back in their saddles, trotting eastward under a mantle of stars. The old Valyrian road glimmered ahead of them like a long silver ribbon winding through wood and dale. Tyrion said of it, "Lomas Longrider told it true. The road's a wonder."

"Lomas Longrider?" asked Duck.

"A scribe, long dead," said Haldon. "He spent his life traveling the world and writing about the lands he visited in two books he called _Wonders_ and _Wonders Made by Man_."

"An uncle of mine gave them to me when I was just a boy," said Tyrion. "I read them until they fell to pieces."

Alyce glanced down at him. He might not realize, but the way he spoke coupled with telling about being given books as a child spoke to a high upbringing. He should be more careful, but he would do what damage he would do. There was nothing she could do for it.

" _The gods made seven wonders, and mortal men made nine_ ," quoted the Halfmaester. "Rather impious of mortal man to do the gods two better, but there you are. The stone roads of Valyria were one of Longrider's nine. The fifth, I believe."

"The forth," Tyrion corrected absently.

They rode all night. Alyce grew weary but not sleepy. Her mind remained alert, having to steer her steed to follow the two horsed men and keep hold of Tyrion. Not having anything he needed to remain alert over, Tyrion dozed against her, and as she held him securely to keep him from falling sideways, he slept. Alyce, Haldon, and Ser Rolly spoke at times whenever one of them thought of something to discuss, but through the many hours it was quiet more often than not.

With Tyrion's back against her stomach, his head used her neck and shoulder as a pillow, although sometimes his heavy head would pitch forward against his own chest and the movement would wake him. Once when this happened, he did not seem to know where he was for a moment, and Alyce brought his body tighter against hers with her arm around his middle to reassure him. He was in front of her and could not easily glance back, but she felt his body relax and respond, shifting closer to her as well. After a moment, he nodded off again, his head lying sideways against her shoulder.

"You don't say much, my lady," Duck commented as they rode in the darkness.

"I've never been called quiet," she told him, smiling slightly. "But the weariness gained of travel and the unfamiliarity of new companions can still a tongue."

"Aye." He nodded in an understanding way. "Tomorrow we'll reach Ghoyan Drohe. Not that much farther."

"I've never been so far east."

"Born in Westeros?"

"Yes. In Maidenpool. But I've spent the last two years with Illyrio."

"Have you known the dwarf long?"

"I met him when he arrived at Illyrio's manse. He's fairly clever but a bit overfond of wine."

"Griff won't tolerate that," Haldon told her. "So he'll come to amend that habit."

"I'm glad of it."

"It is odd Illyrio should send a woman as another guard for us," Haldon commented delicately. "You look strong for a woman, but not as strong as a man."

"I have a certain skill with weapons, but I admit what you say is true. I believe I was chosen by Illyrio because there was no man he trusted more to keep faith—his and yours—than he trusts me." _That is true of Varys, at least_.

Haldon nodded, seeming contented with that answer. "Loyalty and discretion," he said, "are indeed often of more value than brute strength."

"Perhaps my brute strength might improve if your arms master would help." She smiled at Duck, who grinned.

"You can train alongside the boy, if you like," Duck told her. He scratched at his beard and smiled. Alyce did not know what 'boy' he referred to, but it seemed like it must be one of their party that they were riding to meet.

By dawn, her backside was sorer than it had been this journey. Luckily, her legs and thighs were too callused from the riding she had done earlier in the trip to become raw. Tyrion woke as the sun lit the world and groaned, feeling his own aches.

It was late in the afternoon that day that they reached the site of Ghoyan Drohe, hard beside the river.

"The fabled Rhoyne," said Tyrion when they glimpsed the slow green waterway from atop a rise.

"The Little Rhoyne," said Duck.

"It is that."

The Little Rhoyne and its city were not impressive. The canals were choked with weeds and mud, and pools of stagnant water gave birth to flies. The broken stones of temples and palaces were sinking back into the earth, and gnarled old willows grew thick along the riverbanks.

A few people still remained amidst the squalor, tending little gardens in amongst the weeds. The sound of iron hooves ringing on the old Valyrian road sent most darting out of sight, but the bolder ones lingered in the sun long enough to stare at the passersby with dull, incurious eyes. One naked little girl with mud up to her knees stared at Tyrion. He made a face and stuck his tongue out and the little girl began to cry.

"Stop it," Alyce muttered to him.

"What did you do to her?" Duck asked.

"I blew her a kiss. All girls cry when I kiss them."

Beyond the tangled willows, the road ended abruptly and they turned north for a short ways and rode beside the water, until the brush gave way and they found themselves beside an old stone quay, half-submerged and surrounded by tall brown weeds.

" _Duck_!" came a shout. " _Haldon_!"

A boy was standing on the cabin of an old ramshackle single-masted poleboat. The boat had a broad beam and a shallow draft. _There's our Shy Maid. And an ugly maid she is._ The boy was waving a wide-brimmed straw hat. He was a lithe and well-made youth of around sixteen, with a lanky build and a shock of dark blue hair.

Duck was halooing back to him. Their horses splashed through the shallows, trampling down the reeds. The boy leapt off the cabin roof to the poleboat's deck, and the rest of the crew made their appearance. An older couple with a Rhoynish cast to their features stood close beside the tiller, whilst a handsome septa in a soft white robe stepped through the cabin door and pushed back a lock of dark brown hair. And there was no mistaking Griff.

"That will be enough shouting," he said. A sudden silence fell upon the river.


	6. VI: The Shy Maid

…

VI.

The Shy Maid

 **A** lyce was pleased by the look of him. His look was unyielding and shrewd. His cloak was made from the hide and head of a red wolf of the Rhoyne. Under the pelt he wore brown leather stiffened with iron rings. His clean-shaved face was leathery, too, with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Though his hair was as blue as his son's, he had red roots and redder eyebrows. At his hip hung a sword and dagger. His eyes were a pale blue. Not much would get passed him, she knew. That meant she would have to make him privy to her deceits or she would not have them anymore. But she was glad to have a man like him on their trip.

If he was happy to see Duck and Haldon back again, he hid it well, but he did not trouble to hide his displeasure at the sight of Tyrion and herself.

"A dwarf? What's this? Who is this woman?"

"I know, you were hoping for a wheel of cheese." Tyrion looked at the boy and smiled winningly at him. "Blue hair may serve you well in Tyrosh, but in Westeros children will throw stones at you and girls will laugh in your face."

The lad was taken aback. "My mother was a lady of Tyrosh. I dye my hair in memory of her."

"What is this creature?" Griff demanded.

Haldon answered. "Illyrio sent a letter to explain him and the girl."

 _Girl?_ Alyce shot a look at the Halfmaester. _This_ girl _could slice your skinny neck open, you prickly almost-maester._

"I will have it, then. Take them down to my cabin."

 _I hope Illyrio explained all_ , Alyce reflected when the sellsword sat down across from Tyrion in the dimness of the boat's interior, with a scarred plank table and a tallow candle between them. She stood behind to Tyrion's right. They both watched the man read and Alyce noted he did not move his lips as he read. _It may be that both men in this room are playing at being lower than their true birth._

Finally Griff looked up from the parchment, his eyes somewhat narrowed. "Tywin Lannister dead? At _your_ hand?"

"At my finger. This one." Tyrion held it up. "Lord Tywin was sitting on a privy, so I put a crossbow bolt through his bowels to see if he really did shit gold. He didn't. A pity, I could have used some gold. I also slew my mother, somewhat earlier. Oh, and my nephew Joffrey, I poisoned him at his wedding feast and watched him choke to death. Did your cheesemonger leave that part out? I mean to add my brother and sister to the list before I'm done, if it please your queen."

" _Please_ her? Has Illyrio taken leave of his senses? Why does his imagine that Her Grace would welcome the service of a self-confessed kingslayer and betrayer?"

"The king I slew was sitting on her throne, and all those I betrayed were lions, so it seems to me that I have already done the queen good service." He scratched at the scar on his cheek. "Have no fear, I won't kill you, you are no kin of mine. Might I see what the cheesemonger wrote? I do love to read about myself."

Griff ignored the request. He touched the letter to the candle flame and watched the parchment blacken, curl, and flare up. "There is blood between Targaryen and Lannister. Why would you support the cause of Queen Daenerys?"

"For gold and glory," Tyrion said cheerfully. "Oh, and hate. If you had ever met my sister, you would understand."

"I understand hate well enough."

 _That I believe to be true,_ Alyce thought, seeing the sudden distant darkness in his eyes.

Tyrion said, "Then we have that in common, ser."

"I am no knight."

"And yet Duck says you knighted him."

"Duck talks too much."

"Some might wonder why a duck can talk at all. No matter, Griff. You are no knight and I am Hugor Hill, a little monster. Your little monster, if you like. You have my word, all the I desire is to be leal servant of your dragon queen."

"And how do you propose to serve her?"

"With my tongue." He licked a finger. "I can tell Her Grace how my sweet sister thinks, if you can call it thinking. I can tell her captains the best way to defeat my brother Jaime in battle. I know which lords are brave and which are craven, which are loyal and which are venal. I can deliver allies to her. And I know much and more of dragons, as your halfmaester will tell you. I'm amusing, too, and I don't eat much. Consider me your own true Imp."

Griff weighed that for a moment. "Understand this, dwarf. You are the last and least of our company. Hold your tongue and do as you are bid, or you will soon wish you had."

"As you say, my lord."

"I am no lord."

"It was a courtesy, my friend."

"I am not your friend, either."

"A pity."

"Spare me your irony. I will take you as far as Volantis. If you show yourself to be obedient and useful, you my remain with us, to serve the queen as best you can. Prove yourself more trouble than you are worth, and you can go your own way."

"Valar dohaeris," replied Tyrion neutrally.

"The same goes for you as well." Griff had finally shifted his attention to her. He eyed her knives, her shortsword, and grimaced slightly at the sight her hips were making in her fitted pants.

"I'm aware," Alyce replied coolly.

Griff considered her a moment, evaluating her face. "You come very highly recommended."

"As I should. You will not be sorry to have me with you."

"Take care not to make me so." He was frowning. "Don't you have any proper clothing? Our septa might be able to—"

"I am here to fight for you and cannot do so in skirts," she interrupted in a level voice.

His mouth was a hard line. He sat back in his chair. "You both may sleep on the deck or in the hold, as you prefer. Ysilla will find bedding for you."

"How kind of her." Tyrion got off his chair and made a waddling bow. Alyce followed him in silence. At the door, Tyrion turned back to Griff. "What if we should find the queen and discover that this talk of dragons was just some sailor's drunken fancy? This wide world is full of such made tales. Grumkins and snarks, ghosts and ghouls, mermaids, rock goblins, winged horses, winged pigs…winged lions."

Griff stared at him, frowning. "I have given you fair warning, Lannister. Guard your tongue or lose it. Kingdoms are at hazard here. Our lives, our names, our honor. This is no game we're playing for your amusement."

"As you say, Captain," he murmured, bowing once again. But when he turned, Alyce saw in his eyes a truth she had not wanted to see: the dwarf _did_ feel as if this was all a game. A game for nothing.

She and Tyrion both investigated the ship's hold. It made Alyce wish for the ship she had traveled to Pentos in. The hold only had four cabins not including storage and all looked occupied. She had seen some of what must have been the boy's things in Griff's cabin, so they shared one, the Rhyonar couple another, Septa Lemore had a cabin to herself, and in Haldon's cabin, which was the largest of the four, there was a wall lined in bookshelves and crates stacked with old scrolls and parchments. Another crate held racks of ointments, herbs, and potions. Haldon was in his cabin when Alyce and Tyrion peered in and he nodded at them absently. Golden light slanted through the wavy yellow glass of the one round window. In his there was a bunk, a writing desk, a chair, a stool, and some sort of game table, strewn with carved wooden pieces. The wood walls of the cabins were relatively thin, and Alyce disliked the lack of privacy and the dankish smell.

Duck had unloaded the chests into the storage rooms of the hold; there Alyce also saw stores of food and barrels of water and wine. She hefted off her heavy pack and tucked it away in a corner of the storage room. Tyrion remained to snoop around the storage room while Alyce made her way up to the deck.

She saw that the boat's big lateen sail had already been raised and they had navigated to the center of the river where the current was most swift. They were beginning slowly, but with the _Maid's_ sweetly shallow draft, they would soon be moving more quickly. _A fine way to travel. Far easier than horses._

The couple was at the tiller and the septa at the bow. Looking across the deck at the other side of the river from the doorframe, Alyce was startled when The boy leapt down from the roof of the cabin right in front of her. Her hand flew to the hilt of a knife at her belt, but she quickly recovered.

"Are you and the dwarf staying?" he asked, smirking at having surprised her. His eyes were a darker purplish blue than his father's and much more purple than blue in the sunlight. With Targaryen history and lineage still fresh in her mind from her books, the color put her in mind immediately of the Targaryen eyes. Did any other house carry that eye color? She could not remember. Perhaps he was a distant relation of that house and the eye color had carried down. Those eyes had long, fine lashes as well. He was a handsome young man. He was taller than her, though he was younger, and she realized he might even be closer to eighteen than to sixteen. As Alyce herself was only in her early twenties, it made them of an age. She still felt much older than the boy. She had seen more of the world and had done things she felt certain he had not.

"Yes, we'll continue on with you," she answered him.

He nodded and smiled at her. "I'm Griff."

"Alyce."

"Alyce," he repeated. "Duck says you say you're good with weapons." He glanced upwards toward the cabin's roof where no doubt Duck was.

She smiled a little. "I've had some training. Though I've heard you have as well."

"With sword, dagger, axe, and mace."

"I can use a bow and arakh as well."

Young Griff's eyes lit up. "Do you have a bow? May I shoot with it?"

"After a bit of training, perhaps."

"Let's see you shoot it."

Alyce's mouth hardened slightly. His tone was eager, not challenging, but it felt a bit of a challenge. "If you'll fetch it for me. The bow hangs at the side of my pack, which I put in the storage cabin. The quiver is wrapped onto the other side." Almost before she was done speaking, he was hurrying down into the hold to fetch her things.

The river was a far more sickly green than the ocean in the bay of Pentos or the other creeks they had seen on their way. She had seen the Mander, and its waters were clear and calm—nothing like this scummy flowing green.

The boy scampered back up to her, bow and quiver in hand. Alyce took it from him into her hands. It was an old bow Varys had gifted to her years ago.

"May I shoot with it?" he asked immediately.

She shook her head. "Not without some training. All my arrows would end up in the river."

"Will you shoot it, then?"

Alyce fastened her jaw. She yanked out an arrow and nocked, aiming for one of the wooden balls at the tops of the boat's rail. She felt for the wind. She had trained at shooting a few years ago, but had not practiced in a while as she did not love the bow so well as her knives. She hoped she did not make a fool of herself, with the boy, the septa, and likely Duck all looking on. _If the wind gets this, I shall miss, and it would be a poor way to begin my introduction to this group._

She exhaled slowly and then loosed. The sharp point flew and bit into the rounded wood with a sharp thud. She half-smiled, relieved.

Young Griff fetched the arrow for her. "You must show me how," he said. "I've never used a bow."

"I will, but you must be kind to it. It was made for a woman. A _strong_ woman, but still, it will be too small for you." She eyed his broadened shoulders with critical appreciation. He smiled crookedly and somewhat colored under the praise.

"Well shot," the septa complimented, coming toward them. "An arm such as yours will be helpful should we meet any pirates." She was an older but still handsome woman with a rich, confident voice. Alyce's mother being a septa caused her to feel a rather immediate kinship with the woman.

"Septa Lenmore, I believe?" Alyce asked, smiling, remembering the name from the ride here. The septa nodded. "I'm Alyce."

"Alyce, you are welcome to sleep in my cabin if you wish."

She smiled gratefully at the offer. "When the weather is bad, I would be very grateful to. When it is fair, though, I might like to sleep on deck with the river's fresh air."

Young Griff had been watching her as she spoke. "Where are you from?" he asked as they went to sit on the deck. He seemed a little shyer now. She knew the way she looked was winning her his attraction.

"Westeros, in Maidenpool," she answered. "But I've spent a couple years in Pentos working for Illyrio."

"Doing what?" he asked.

She shot him an indulgent look. "Don't be nosy. I did what he asked, and he would likely thank me for not sharing his business with everyone I meet."

Griff shrugged and smiled. "Illyrio likes me."

"Or are you just one of those people who thinks everyone likes them?" she teased him. He looked taken aback.

"I don't _think_ I am."

Griff, the elder, came up onto the deck. He frowned when he saw the two of them sitting together. The frown eased when the boy got up and came to his side.

 _He doesn't wish for the boy and I to be close. I must remember that._ Young Griff was enjoyable to talk to, and could easily be a toy of hers if she so chose, but she could not afford to earn Griff's disapproval. She would not encourage the boy's attention.

Instead of sitting on her backside which was still mightily sore from the long ride, Alyce stretched out on her back, using her arms as a pillow, and watched the interactions on deck. Griff behaved softer toward his son than toward anyone else, and she saw that Young Griff was fiercely loyal to him. That said much. Griff went back down below decks after a short time.

Alyce noticed that Septa Lenmore had a coyer smile than a septa perhaps should have. The boy was also very fond of Duck; he had a bit more wit than the large man, but he did not tease Duck, which she found endearing. Alyce felt content. There was no one on board she felt had ill intentions. In fact, they seemed like a rag-tag family. Haldon was perhaps the most irritating of the party because he thought himself cleverer than he was, and his sense of humor was mean-spirited.

After a rest on the deck, she took up her bow and quiver and went into the hold to find a place to store it and to check after Tyrion. When she entered the storeroom she saw that Tyrion had found a tin cup and was drinking wine from one of the barrels like a fish in water.

She had to turn away and dig her fingernails into her palms to prevent herself from stomping to him, taking the cup from his hand, and hitting him over the head with it like a bad dog. If she tried to control him in that way, he would only resent her for it. Duck had said Griff would not stand for drunkenness. She hoped he would interfere so she did not have to. She returned her weapons to her pack, dug out a book she had nicked from Ilyrio's libraries, and returned to the deck.

When darkness came that evening and they could no longer safely steer the poleboat, they let anchors down and came to a stop along the bank. Immediately everyone retired to their cabins. Alyce was thinking about setting up a place to sleep herself when Griff appeared on the deck. The way he rubbed at his face led Alyce to believe he might have been sleeping ever since he disappeared below that afternoon. He nodded at her brusquely, and then set about lighting a brazier and sitting beside it in the dark.

Alyce joined him, wondering if the coming of night would bring chill. The air was hotter here than it had been in Pentos, but the night might still have a chill to it. She was not yet sure.

"Do you keep watch at night?" she asked him.

"I do. Where is your dwarf?"

Alyce glanced at him, hoping he would not make further allusion to her connection with Tyrion. Tyrion could chance hear them if he were on his way to the deck. "Drinking himself sick, most like. A habit of which he needs to be broken."

"Mm." Griff's eyes were never still, even though she knew he was listening to her. They searched the night for danger. "Will he be trouble?" he asked.

Alyce shrugged. "If he means to be. But he has been treated terribly by his family, and I do not think he lies when he speaks of wishing to destroy them all. He does not have an ulterior motive for being here. He did not even know where he was to go until Illyrio told him he was to journey to the queen when he arrived in Pentos." She paused. "Some men begin cruel and some men begin with good intentions until they are thwarted often enough that they become cruel out of bitterness. I believe the dwarf is the latter."

Griff eyed her briefly. "And yourself?"

"I'm not a man." She smiled slightly.

"Illyrio assured me you're to be trusted. That you're loyal. But he did not say to whom."

Alyce tried to think of a way to explain her loyalty in a way he would understand and trust. "Excepting our dwarf of Lannister," she said in a low voice, so that no one else could hear her, even if they were listening at the deck door, "most of us feel a loyalty to our parents. To the ones who fed, educated, and took care of us. The man who took care of me since infancy has asked me to protect the dwarf with my life. This is where my loyalty is. If I come to care for those on this ship, I will protect them as well. But Tyrion is my priority."

"Why is he so bloody important?" Griff muttered at her.

"The reasons he mentioned in your cabin sounded like enough to me."

Griff's mouth drew into a line. She could see plainly he did not think the dwarf was worthy of being an advisor to this queen.

"You're an odd choice to be a shield," he commented gruffly.

She replied mildly, "You're wrong. A man would have a stronger arm, but that is all. I may go places a man could not. I can wheedle out secrets like a man could not. I garner a certain attraction from the dwarf that a man would not garner. I appear less threatening and can take my enemies by surprise. And I am more devoted to honoring my oath than anyone else my caretaker could have given the task to."

Griff acknowledged her argument with a grudging nod, though his eyes still regarded her as if from a suspicious distance. She doubted many if any people truly were trusted by this man.

"Speaking of the dwarf," she murmured, standing, "I must needs make sure he is not drinking himself to death." She wished to share confidence with Griff a bit longer, but also grew restless when it had been a time since she had checked on her charge.

She could hear Tyrion humming softly to himself in the store room when she went into the hold. She pushed the store room door open and, ignoring Tyrion, went to the pile of sacks, furs, and straw mats, and began rifling through them.

"M'lady of Pentos. No, Maidenpool," he slurred at her, raising his cup in her direction. "Are there pools of maids in Maidenpool? Or pools of the blood of maids? Wasn't this pool of maids of yours sacked in our War of the Five Kings?"

Alyce ignored his rambling and found some bedding and furs for him. She placed them in front of him.

"Here's for sleeping."

"I forget, m'lady of Maidenpool, what is House Mooton's sigil again?"

"A red salmon on white," she growled at him. "One would think you mistrusted me."

"Only fools put trust in the bravery of sellswords, the tameness of lions, or the oaths of pretty women."

"I've made you no oaths."

"I've been a fool," he admitted, "but a touch less so now, I think. I am done with pretty women. And with lions."

"Sounds wise." She was irritated with him, but he looked a rather pathetic sight sitting awkwardly on a low crate with clothes that did not fit him and cloudy eyes. "I would make your bed in here tonight," she told him gently. "If you rolled off the deck or roof and into the river to drown, Illyrio would be terribly sore at me." She spread out some sacks and two furs for him.

"Care for some wine?" he offered. "It's no good when a man drinks himself blind without company."

"A no to the wine, but I'll be your company." She laid out her own mat and furs in the cramped store room. Perhaps she could learn a thing or two about him if they spoke while his tongue was loose. She laid her beddings close to Tyrion's with the intent to move them against the far wall when he went to sleep.

"You are good company, I think," he said.

"Well, we cannot all be droll little dwarves, but I have my moments."

Tyrion half-smiled. "That Griff fellow. What do you make of him?"

Alyce moved closer so they could whisper. She did not want Griff or his company to hear them speak about them, but she liked the idea of sharing confidences with Tyrion. It would encourage him to trust her.

"He strikes me as some sort of exile lord," she said quietly. "He looks it, he sounds it, he reads, and Duck says he's a knight."

Tyrion grinned devilishly. "He pretends not to be."

"Neither of you want to draw undo attention to yourselves. Doubtless he has his reasons." She shrugged. "I like him. I think he has honor."

"So did the Starks," Tyrion muttered darkly. He finished his cup with several large swallows.

Alyce remembered watching Lord Stark's head drop off his shoulders from far back in the crowd while it had still been summer in King's Landing. His body had twitched horribly. The boy king who had demanded it be done was this man's nephew. The thought was astounding to her. Here was a king's relation, sitting beside her and drinking like they had just come through a war together. It was closer to royalty than most bastard-born ever, ever get.

Tyrion wiped his mouth on the back of his hand with a sigh and steadied himself with a hand at the edge of the crate.

"Well, here I am," he sighed and slid himself off the crate to sit beside her. He appeared to be having trouble keeping his eyes open.

"Do you know where whores go yet?" Alyce asked him, wondering about his strange question.

"Would that I did, sweetling…" He tried to lift his cup to his mouth again and grunted when he realized it was empty. He leaned against the crate and closed his eyes. Alyce also leaned back against the crate beside him with her elbows on it and was thoughtful. _Was he a touch mad_? She supposed everyone had their own obsessions. Varys had painted to her a rosy picture of this stunted man, but she had not yet seen evidence of any goodness in him. Brilliance, yes, but goodness? He was helpless to be sure, but helplessness did not necessarily translate into kindness or loyalty. He could still be as twisted a little monkey demon as the streets of Kings Landing had griped.

Tyrion's arm grew slack and his wine cup rolled from his fingers. As his eyes grew too heavy to hold up, his upper body slumped against her side, his head under her arm. Alyce looked down at him and grimaced. _I do not envy you the headache you will have in the morning, little dwarf._ She did, however, enjoy the feeling of him tucked under her arm. While he was there, he was as safe as he could be and she knew she was fulfilling her vow to protect him. While he was there, he could not argue or stray or be difficult.

Alyce laid him in bed on his side beneath a fur and dragged her own bedding to the wall to sleep apart from him.


	7. VII: The Sellsword

…

VII.

The Sellsword's Son

 **T** yrion woke in the dimness of early morning with dragons fighting in his skull and the rocking of the ship turning his stomach.

He saw that Alyce looked to be still asleep under blankets against the far wall of the storage room. He clambered shakily out of the store room, out of the hold, and hurled himself to the railing of the poleboat where he heaved up everything his stomach could upheave as Griff looked on from beside the brazier.

"You are done with drink," Griff said. His tone was one that would not be contested. That did not stop Tyrion from trying.

"Wine helps me sleep."

"Then stay awake," Griff replied, implacable.

When it seemed his stomach had no more to give, Tyrion stumbled back into the hold, a hand clutching his throbbing head. He needed water so he went back to the store room for some.

Alyce woke as he was filling the cup he had used last night with water. He could see the distaste in her eyes as she watched his shaky, ginger movements. She was wearing only a loose undershirt resembling a male tunic and smallclothes. When she pushed the furs off, he glimpsed lovely slim legs and turned away.

 _I am done with women._

The constant scream in his head made him angry, and as such her sumptuousness seemed villainous. She dressed with her back to him, pulled on her boots, strapped on her knives, and also found a cup for water. She said nothing, and he was grateful for that. He would not have been able to keep from snapping at her, and she had done nothing to deserve it.

They heard the others getting up and going out onto the deck, and Alyce took her water cup with her and joined them. Tyrion filled his roiling stomach with water and then covered himself with a blanket.

When Alyce reached the deck, the sunrise had suffused the sky about the river like the juice of some tropical fruit. The waters of the Rhoyne had turned from the black of night to blue to match Griff's hair and beard, though their night watchman had already retired into the hold. River larks sang and egrets splashed through the reeds and left their tracks across the sandbars. She looked across the side of the boat and was startled to see an enormous turtle swimming its way upstream beside their boat. It looked large enough to cut a leg in two with a sharp-looking little knob on its upper snout. Other smaller turtles were hiding in the shallows or sitting on the shore.

Yandry was pulling up the anchor. He slid one of the long poles off the cabin roof and pushed them off. Two of the herons raised their heads to watch as the _Shy Maid_ drifted away from the bank, out into the current. Slowly the boat began to move downstream. Yandry went to the tiller. Ysilla had fed the brazier on the afterdeck some wood chips and was now stirring the coals with a blackened blade. She then began to knead some dough for morning biscuits.

Septa Lemore's hair was wet and Alyce supposed she had taken a morning swim or bath in the river.

"I'm impressed you have the courage to swim in the river with turtles as big as there are in there," Alyce said to her, smiling a little.

Lemore smiled at her. "I think they have better things to do than to try to nibble on me."

"I don't know," Alyce teased. "Wiggle your toes a certain way…"

The septa laughed.

Alyce sniffed at the biscuits cooking, feeling genuinely hungry as she had not in many days. She waited patiently for them to be done and occupied herself with looking over the rail at the river's banks.

The sound of nimble, heavy boots on the deck alerted Alyce to the entrance of Young Griff. She smiled slightly but did not turn to look.

"Good morrow, septa," he said to Lemore. "Hello Ysilla."

Ysilla apparently gave him two of the first biscuits, because he came up beside Alyce on the rail and offered her one.

"Thank you." She took it and was pleased to see it was dripping with a light honey glaze and still quite hot.

"Have you seen the turtles?" he asked her, looking out at the river with her. "Have you seen how big some are?"

She nodded. "I saw one as big as that rock there." She pointed.

"Oh, they get bigger," he told her, grinning. "Haldon says the princes of the Rhoyne used to ride on their backs along the river."

Alyce smiled. "I wonder if one could saddle a turtle?"

Griff laughed at the thought and shrugged. After everyone else on deck had had some biscuits, Alyce and Young Griff helped themselves to more. Lemore brought some to Yandry at the tiller and Alyce took a few up and headed back into the deck to bring Tyrion some breakfast.

She found the storeroom door wide open and Duck nailing the wine barrels to the ceiling of the room with some cloth to hold them. Griff must have instructed him to do so. She smiled, satisfied. Tyrion was curled almost entirely under a fur, with only his forehead and a bit of his scar showing.

"Tyrion. Breakfast." She shook him gently. He groaned and sat up on his elbows. She took up one of his hands and placed two biscuits in it. "Eat."

Tyrion placed them next to him and brought the fur up around him again. Taking that as dismissal, Alyce scowled and left him.

Duck came up to break his fast and Young Griff brought some food to the Halfmaester in his cabin. Alyce ran her fingers through her hair, felt the grease that it held, and envied the septa her bath. Now that the boat was moving there was nothing for it, but perhaps tomorrow morning. Or maybe she could get creative… If she wet and soaped her hair and then let it hang down into the water while she hung onto the ladder…

Alyce went into the storage room and rifled through her pack to find the soaps that Varys had sent with her. She came back on deck and smiled at Duck and Young Griff who were taking slow blows toward one another. She assumed Duck was teaching him how to swing a punch, but when she watched for a moment she saw that Young Griff already knew how to hit and Duck was teaching him how to deftly avoid another's swings.

They stopped to watch as Alyce nimbly lowered herself down upside-down along the ladder to the river until her hair up to her roots was wet from the river that was flowing by. Then, holding herself by one arm and her legs, she took up her soap and worked into it her hair upside-down. Once she was done, she placed the soap on the deck, washed off her hand briefly, and then lowered herself down again to let the river wash it off. She squeezed some of the water out and then pulled herself back up onto the deck.

Young Griff laughed at her and he and Duck resumed their training. The septa was smiling.

"You have strong arms. I would be afraid of losing my grip and tumbling into the water," she said.

"It wasn't hard." She shook out her hair and combed through it with her fingers.

"Is Hugor still abed?"

Alyce nodded. "He isn't feeling well."

While the septa went back into the hold to keep her face out of the sun, Alyce watched the two men mock-fight. Duck was a good teacher. He did not perhaps have the vocabulary, but he had an excellent instinctual sense for fighting and how to improve the boy's skill.

As the light began to slant in the afternoon, the septa returned to the deck and sat contentedly in the shade of the hold, and even Haldon came out to be sociable as the weather was so pleasant. Alyce enjoyed talking with them all, joking with Duck and Young Griff, and watching the river scenery pass. Watching the river was peaceful.

They cooked a large midday meal and this she did not take to Tyrion. If he wished to lie in the storeroom all day, he would have to deal with the repercussions. Most of the late afternoon and evening Young Griff spent in Haldon's cabin, being instructed by him of more mental pursuits. _Quite a lot of education for a sellsword's son._

Duck, Lemore, and Alyce gathered around the brazier still glowing from the meal and talked or simply held quiet company together around it while the sun furthered its decent. They spoke of things they had seen along the river, what they expected to come, and bits about each of their pasts. Alyce liked the way the septa spoke—as if she chose all her words with gentle care. Duck was the opposite—he said whatever came to mind.

Finally Tyrion made an appearance. The septa kindly got up and began cooking a little food for him. Tyrion took a seat by Alyce. He still looked ill.

"Well, how has the river been?" he asked.

"The river is always interesting, Hugor," said the septa, "if you know how to look at it."

This response did not satisfy him but instead of asking further questions, he turned to Alyce. "Thank you for the biscuits."

"You're welcome." The gratitude from him was appreciated.

"What have I missed?"

"You missed Duck teaching Young Griff how to avoid swinging fists." Alyce smiled at Duck. "And you missed some good conversation. And some turtles. That is about it."

Tyrion nodded and helped Lemore cook his meal over the brazier.

"Where is the boy now?" he asked.

"In with Haldon," Duck answered. "Learning out of books and scrolls."

"Mm." Tyrion thought about this. His eyes looked slightly quizzical. Perhaps he was wondering, like she did, why a sellsword's son needed so much education. More education, in fact, than some lord's sons received.

"How are you feeling?" Alyce asked him more quietly.

He grimaced and shrugged. "I do not think dwarves were made for boats."

 _No, dwarves were not made to drink half a barrel of wine._ Perhaps he did not want to alert the others to what he knew Alyce knew, however.

"I hope it will grow easier for you, Hugor," said Lemore as she handed him his food.

"Thank you, septa."

Shortly after, Young Griff and Haldon appeared again on deck. The sun was flirting with the western horizon but Young Griff did not seem ready to end the day. He said his hellos to Tyron, and then turned again to Ser Rolly.

"Can we spar, Duck?" he asked, grinning. He had a bastard blade hanging from his hip. He glanced briefly at Alyce and she felt perhaps his eagerness to spar was an eagerness to show off.

"Perhaps tomorrow, lad."

Despite this, the boy unsheathed his blade and began practicing steps in the open area of the deck. "I haven't quite mastered that feint you showed me two days ago." He shuffled and parried with an invisible opponent about the boat.

"What say you, Yollo?" he quipped, grinning as he reached Tyrion. "Shall you and I match blades?" He swung his sword jokingly toward Tyrion, but even in jest, that was not something Alyce could abide. She saw the blade moving toward her charge and the tendons in her arms and back sprang with heat into movement. She slipped her strongest dirk out of its sheath fluid as rushing water and swung it up to meet the boy's blade.

There was a shocked silence as the steel on steel sounded. Young Griff immediately yanked his sword back, his handsome face blank with shock. Duck's large hand gripped the hilt of his own blade, his arm muscles and usually-amiable face now hard as rock. The evening sunlight glinted redly on the thick steel he had half-pulled from its sheath.

"It was only a jest," the boy told her quickly, eyes wide. "I would never try to hurt him. The sword was not going to touch him."

Alyce had sheathed her dirk, and she replied gently as she sat back in her chair, "A true swordsman never points his blade at someone who cannot defend themselves, unless they are threatened in some way. He should know that the world holds many dangers, and instead of adding his to the many, would instead stand in protection."

Young Griff looked contrite. "You're right," he replied with a gentleness and modesty that Alyce had not seen in him before. He looked at Tyrion. "I should not have pointed my blade at you, Hugor, even in jest. I vow you have the protection of my sword."

"With your sword and her knife," Tyrion said with a small smile, "I reckon I would be safe in a den of lions." He smiled at the boy. "That was well-handled, lad. I have seen kings take criticism a great deal poorer."

The tension of the moment was gone. Tyrion glanced at Alyce but Young Griff had taken her attention.

"My blade likely dented yours a bit," he said apologetically.

"Aye," she agreed gently, taking the dirk out to inspect it. There was indeed a small indent. "Do you have a stone to smooth it? And a hammer?"

"Yes—I'll get them." He was back quickly and they sat on the deck together and smoothed her knife blade. She did the careful hammering flat of the dent, and then he smoothed and sharpened it on the stone for her. Duck came over and gave them tips on how best to do so. She saw the boy was not unused to sharpening blades, and did it well. When it was smoothed and sheathed, the two stood.

"So, what did you learn today about evasion?" Alyce asked him. "I might have a thing or two to learn about that."

Young Griff grinned, delighted to be the teacher for once. He became disappointed after they had gone a few rounds with everyone looking on and he realized Alyce had very little to learn as far as evading swings.

"You're slippery as a cat," he told her, frowning. "I can't teach you anything. How's your punch?"

"I don't really have one."

"What do you mean? I can teach you."

She laughed a little. "Imagine I were fighting a man of your build. You have height on me as well as strength. Unless I had a riskless opportunity, trying to hit your face is a dangerous waste of the time I have before you get your hands around my wrists and I cannot do anything else. I'm dead if a man like you really gets a hold of me."

Young Griff had obviously never thought about fighting from a woman's perspective. Likely none of the women in his world think about fighting. "A man like me would not hurt you," he said.

"You know what I mean." She eyed him. "I do not know if you know what it feels like to be physically powerless, but I would do anything to avoid it. There are much more efficient ways of besting a man physically. Not all of them are chivalrous. You have likely been taught none of them." She shot a quick smile at Duck, who was looking on. He shrugged.

"How?" the boy asked.

Alyce grinned. "I would move in and out, as fast as possible, causing pain to stop your attack. I would go for your neck with jabs, keeping my fingers stiff. A hard enough blow to the throat, even a small one, can cause a man to stop being able to breathe for a minute or so. Eyes are weak. So are shins. All men protect their cocks when their cocks are threatened, so I might feint toward that with my knee and then hit eyes, shins, throat. A strong kick to one or both knees will down a man. The tops of the feet are vulnerable also. Noses as well. A palm up into the nose like this…" Each move she mentioned, she mimed doing it. Young Griff looked a bit dubious, but listened raptly to her explanations all the same. Alyce knew that she would not be able to show him, seeing as she did not wish to injure anyone on the boat.

"If I want a man unconscious, I would likely down him first and then bash his head against something hard. I could hit his jaw with my fist, rattling him and making him faint, but to hit hard enough for that, I would have to hurt my hand—my sword hand. Better to use what's around me."

When the sun set, everyone began to retire, and Young Griff went to wake his father. Griff came out onto the dark deck and began cooking a meal for himself over the brazier. Alyce, who was sitting beside Tyrion, noticed the dwarf shaking slightly. He looked drawn and uncomfortable and soon stood to go into the hold for the night. After she helped Yandry and Duck wrestle the sails down, Alyce followed him.

She found him kneading his stiff, swollen legs with a grimace and slightly shaking hands. She dug out the ointment from Illyrio's manse she had stored away and sat down in front of him to massage it into his skin. He stared at her when she sat down, but then his eyes softened with gratitude when he saw the ointment and watched her begin to massage his aching leg muscles.

"Is that from Illyrio?" he asked.

"Yes. I thought it might be a good thing to have."

"Thank you." He dipped his fingers into the tin and began on his other leg so she did not have to do both. He glanced at her.

"I appreciate your quickness to defend me today." There was the hint of cold jape to his voice that caused his thanks to sound more akin to mockery. Alyce did not look up at him.

"I'm to protect everyone on this little venture," she replied. "And right now, though I am pledged to protect them, I know little of this group and do not entirely trust them. I have been with you longer and trust you a touch more."

"Ah, a lethal mistake," he said darkly. "Surely you know I am an oathbreaker, kinslayer, kingslayer, and strangler of whores?"

"It is comforting to know the worst of one's companion, is it not?" She kept her tone unaffected and light. "Seeing as I am not your kin, a king, nor a whore, it seems I have little to fear from you."

Tyrion eyed her. His eyes had flashed at the word 'whore.' "You are not a maid."

"Not a maid and not a whore. I think you will find most women are somewhere in between."

"A man's legs, to be specific."

She shot him a look as she sat back and wiped her hands on a cloth. The ointment had her skin tingling. She handed him the cloth so he could wipe off his hands as well.

Alyce watched his hands tremble and took up one of his wrists to look.

"You're shaking."

He yanked his arm away. "I still feel ill. I have not eaten much today."

"You mean you have not had wine today. Do not waste breath telling me falsehoods."

"I appreciate your concern," he growled coldly, sounding anything but appreciative. "I am going to bed."

That night, Alyce heard him shivering in his sleep. She got off her bedroll and draped her best fur over him in the darkness. Her sleeping pile was less comfortable without it, but his shivering stopped after a time. Alyce drifted to sleep.


	8. VIII: Pointless Falsehoods

…

VIII.

Pointless Falsehoods

 **W** hen she woke, Tyrion was not in the storeroom. The vague dimness of the pre-dawn was just beginning to steal the darkness from the doorway. She yawned languidly in the darkness and did some exercises to wake her muscles up. She lit a small oil lamp to see, and then pulled on pants, boots, and tossed a loose-fitting shirt over her head. She wished to bathe but did not know the conventions for bathing in the river. She supposed Griff would be angry if she bathed naked in front of his son.

Alyce pulled out a long, well-made cloth that Varys had sent with her from her pack and put it over an arm. She picked up a bar of soap and met a tired Griff returning from his nightly post in the narrow hold hall. He nodded gruffly at her and then shut his cabin door behind him. She spied his son still asleep in the cabin.

Her eyebrows rose as she spied the septa bathing naked as her nameday beside the prow of the boat. Steam was rising in delicate tendrils from the water that was cooler than the air and birds had begun talking to each other across the wide river. Ysilla and Yandry were awake and at their duties readying the boat to continue on down the river, and Tyrion was sitting on the roof of the hold, watching the septa bathe with randy attention. Even Yandry snuck looks at her every minute or so.

Alyce slipped around toward the stern of the boat without attracting too much notice. She stripped down to her smallclothes which themselves needed a good wash. She peered into the river critically, hoping no huge snappers were hiding in the greenish water. She could see smaller turtles swimming alongside the boat, but when she lowered herself into the water, they swam from her.

Alyce leaned her head back and smiled. The cool water felt wonderful and smelled clean, like fresh grass and spring rain. She climbed up to grasp her soap and then lathered her body, hair, and smallclothes in the water. She took her smallclothes off to completely clean them and then rinsed them and hung them on the boat's rail while she continued to bathe. When she was cleaner than she had been in days, she lifted herself back up onto the stern deck and dried herself with the cloth she had brought. She wrapped the cloth around herself, took up her clothes and the soap, and then slipped back down the side deck. She felt Tyrion's eyes on her bared skin as she walked across the deck and into the darkness of the hold.

She changed into clean clothes in the storeroom, resolving to try to wash some of her other clothes in the river soon, and was combing her hair when she walked back out on deck to join those who had risen early. She hopped up the wooden ladder onto the hold roof to join Tyrion. The dwarf had begun to sweat again, and did not look to be in the best of moods. She knew he likely wanted to strangle Griff for putting the wine out of his reach like he had strangled his whore.

"You are more modest than our septa it seems," he commented mildly.

"You are more modest than the both of us."

She saw Tyrion grimace. _Perhaps that was an ill thing to say. He might be ashamed of his body._

"I'm not quite dirty enough yet for the risk," he said. "Plus, one of those turtles might think to break their fast with me."

"They steered clear of me when I went."

"You should have waited until the boy was awake. I would have enjoyed seeing him reduced to witless staring."

Alyce rolled her eyes.

"I half doubt he's ever seen a woman naked. Griff is too…honorable." He sounded as if he would have liked to call him something else.

"Best not step on Griff's toes."

The septa went back into her cabin after breakfast. Duck and Haldon came out briefly to eat and talk but then they also went back into the hold and only Yandry and Ysilla were left on deck to steer the ship downriver. Alyce lay contentedly in the middle of the roof and Tyrion seemed to think that a fine idea, because he lay beside her, his hands under his head.

"I suppose the boy is busy being educated?" he asked her.

For all intents and purposes they were alone; Yandry and Ysilla were too preoccupied and far away to listen to them and only someone standing in the doorframe of the hold would be able to hear them from where they were lying on the roof.

Alyce nodded. "The septa educates him in the Faith, Haldon educates him out of books and about history, politics, and mathematics, and Duck is his weapons trainer." She lowered her voice somewhat. "Quite a lot for a sellsword's son, don't you think?"

Tyrion turned his head to look at her fully. Then he looked away. "Quite a lot."

As the clouds passed overhead, Alyce thought about that and about the boy. His father was a knight—a knight or even a lord or lord's son of Westeros. He was being trained and educated extensively, but educated in secret.

Alyce had been raised among deceivers, Lord Varys perhaps the greatest of them all. And she could feel that certain things did not add up about the boy. Varys and Illyrio both put great stock in his safety. His existence was being kept a secret. He and his father looked nothing alike. Griff had red hair and beard and light blue eyes. His son has nobler features, fair hair at the roots…and purple eyes. Alyce closed her own eyes and tried to picture the Targaryen family line she had studied in the book Varys had sent with her. She had assumed he had sent that book with her to inform her about the queen's family, but perhaps…

 _No, there is no Targaryen alive who is Young Griff's age._ _Who could he be?_

A wispy cloud floated by that looked rather like a crown. It made her think of the queen to be—and the late King Joffrey.

"There is another falsehood I should like you to stop trying to tell me," Alyce murmured to him after a time.

"And what is that?"

"I know you did not kill the king."

He turned his head to stare intently at her. He scratched at the scar on his cheek. "And tell me, when an entire city believes me guilty, and even my own dear brother had doubts, how is it you 'know' this?"

"Illyrio has a friend across the Narrow."

"Varys." Tyrion's mouth was a flat line, but he did not look upset that she knew.

"And what else do you know about me, sweetling?" His tone made the endearment into a jape.

"If you try to tell me other lies, I suppose you will find out."

"I find that to be terribly hypocritical. You tell just as many lies as I."

Alyce propped her head on an elbow to look at him. She kept her expression carefully neutral. "Oh?"

"You are not from Maidenpool."

"You think you know better than I where I am from?"

Tyrion have her a flat look. "You hide your accent perfectly, which is impressive. But you called a fish fillet a 'happer' the other evening, a term only those from King's Landing use."

Alyce frowned. _This little lord is too clever for his own good._ She inspected his expression. "No one here—including you—would easily trust anyone from King's Landing."

"No one here easily trusts anyone under _any_ circumstances."

"True enough," she grunted.

She thought that would be it, but Tyrion added, "And I do not believe you served Illyrio for two years. You were not familiar enough with his household servants for it to be two years."

She sighed, relenting. "That is true as well."

"Question is: who _have_ you been serving?"

"This is simple. If you are as clever as you seem you would have been able to tell that Illyrio trusts me completely. Therefore, if you trust Illyrio, you trust me."

"Illyrio is after profit. If I would have been more use to him dead, he would have had me killed without qualm. That is how far I trust Illyrio. You trust him farther then, I take it? I think that is unwise."

"Who we trust and why is an interesting thing," Alyce murmured. "I only trust Illyrio because someone _I_ deeply trust assured me I could trust him. There are no many interlocking webs of confidence and suspicion…"

"The game of thrones," Tyrion murmured. After a moment of quiet he added, "There is another thing I know about you."

She tuned to look at him, honestly quizzical. "You have already wormed out all my little deceptions. What more could you have to say?"

"I know you are one of Robert's bastards."

Any chance she might have had at plausibly denying it with a light laugh and a careful concealment was undone by the pure shock in her eyes which she was not able to control in time. Tyrion saw it and one of his eyebrows rose pointedly.

Alyce lay her head back down on the roof, exhaling. "Alright: impress me. How could you _possibly_ know that?"

"I have seen a brother and a sister of yours. I met the sister. Mya. She is older, but you two have the same hair and eyes and oddly perhaps teeth as well. Your face shapes and noses are different, though—you are much lovelier. You must have had a very comely mother. I didn't recognize it at first, though I did believe you reminded me of someone. When I saw you spar a bit with the boy, looking more a man than a woman, I realized who it was you reminded me of."

"This Mya—where was she living? Did they kill her in the raid?" She had never asked Varys about her siblings—many of them had been murdered in the bastard raid and the older ones were scattered all across the seven kingdoms.

"No, she is safe in the Eyrie. Frostbitten hell of a place…" His voice had a bitter edge. He glanced at her. "Do you now know of any of the others?"

She shook her head. "Who are they?"

He seemed amused. "Well, there was a blacksmith named…ah, Henry or Gerart or something, and apparently there is a rather high-born one named Edric Storm that Stannis is lording over. And then you." He looked at her. "A shield for the aiders of a dragon queen."

"I hope she really does have dragons. Dragons and their magic have been lost to the world for so long."

Tyrion gave her a condescending glance. "There is no such thing as magic. Merely tricks and the science of nature. What was written down when people did not know better is naught but myth."

Alyce smiled at him. "You have read a great deal, Tyrion, and you have seen much of the world. But I have been witness to things you have not. The eggs Illyrio gifted to Daenerys when she was wed were long-dead fossils, hard as stone. When we get a chance to ask her, I will wager my sword arm that she will confess that it was blood magic that quickened them. And with their breath, fire streaked across the sky and magic that had dwindled to a pinprick was rekindled again in the wide world."

"You could be a singer," he teased, rolling his eyes. Alyce smiled and let the subject drop. But Varys had explained these things to her. He had given her special texts to study and in the last year had allowed her to be witness to things that could not be explained by tricks or science. She had never seen proof of the gods…but she had seen proof of magic.

"Have you killed people?" Tyrion asked her out of nowhere.

"Yes," she answered easily. "When it's needed to be done."

"Children?"

She frowned. "No. Unless they were somehow an egregious threat, I wouldn't hurt a child."

They lapsed into silence again. The world floated by. Herons flew above, their great wings outspread. There were ruins among the banks; masonry overcome by vines and moss and flowers, but seemingly no people. Yandry had warned of river pirates, but they had not yet seen a sign of anyone.

"I should like to meet these other by-blows—my siblings," she admitted quietly. "I should like to have a brother or a sister." She'd had a friend who was a farmer's daughter once, and the girl had had five siblings. The dynamics between them all had made her unseasonably envious.

"Mine have been a curse," Tyrion replied to her darkly under his breath. "If my father had done what any peasant farmer would have done and drowned me straight away, me and everyone else in my family would have been far better off. You should count yourself lucky not to have them."

"Well yours are rather rare sorts."

His thoughts were far away. "Aye… 'More treacherous through weakness than through calculation.'"

She turned toward him. "Quoting Ortellion?"

He looked at her with new eyes. "You've studied a bit of philosophy."

"I've studied a number of things."

He looked impressed with her.

They spoke of books and philosophers for a time. When the conversation stalled and the dwarf seemed lost in his own thoughts, Alyce hummed absently, watching the sky pass overhead. _You ask if I want something fine, made of silver or maybe golden, either from the mountains of the Marches, or from the coast of the Thousand Islands…_

A wave stronger than most others thudded against their boat, rocking them, and Tyrion grunted, sitting up. "Well, Griff has tasked me with setting down all I know of dragons. He said parchment and ink were in Haldon's cabin. I best get started."

"If you hand grows tired, I have good script. You could dictate to me."

Tyrion was climbing down the ladder. "Best be careful—I might take advantage of that offer."

Alyce lay watching the sky and thinking. She could hear nothing from inside the hold so there were only river sounds. She expected Tyrion would write inside the cabin, but to her surprise he rejoined her on the roof with his parchment and ink. He put the ink against one of his boots so it would not tip and began to write, keeping all the bits of paper safely under his arm or leg so that the wind would not be tempted to lift them away.

After a time he stopped and commented, "He also asked me to help Lemore re-fashion the clothes Illyrio sent with me."

"Good," Alyce replied. "They do not fit you well."

"He wants the shirts cut up the middle and stitched together with a different half to resemble motley."

Alyce grimaced. _That is unkind of Griff._ "Looking a fool with help camouflage you. I am sure he is only trying to help you."

"He likes me not," Tyrion returned. "But I do not care because I do not like him, either. He has no humor and gives too many orders."

"I grant you he has no humor, but stressful tasks often take the humor from things. It is on him to get us all safely to Volantis. I think he is a good man."

"It seems I do not get on with good men."

Alyce glanced at him. She had begun to see a more agreeable side of Tyrion today, but that comment reminded her of what had come before. She closed her eyes as he began to scratch away at the parchment again.

 _Yes, there's something you can send back to me…Mryish boots of Myrish leather._

Alyce dozed for a while, relaxed and comfortable as Tyrion wrote and the river drifted past. She did not mind the sun browning her slightly. She would look less Westerosi that way. When she woke, Tyrion was massaging his wrist and watching her.

"Let me write a while," she offered.

Tyrion had to stop dictating to her a little while before sundown due to a headache. He had also begun to sweat and shake again. While he massaged a cramp in a calf, Alyce took his parchment and ink back into Haldon's cabin. Young Griff was in with the Halfmaester studying Essos history and he gave her a smile as she slipped in and out. Tyrion was making sharp hiss noises of pain but stopped as he heard her begin climbing the ladder.

"Can you walk on it?" she asked him.

"In a little while," he grunted. Alyce thought about offering to carry him into the hold where he could rest, but supposed that would wound his pride. She watched as a tremor shook him slightly. She knew drunkards could have these sorts of symptoms after quitting drink but had never seen it before. She felt a touch sorry for him, but mostly glad he was enduring this now so that he no longer drank himself into oblivion.

When Tyrion had made it to his sleeping mat, Alyce tossed the ointment tin to him from where she was sitting across the cabin.

Before she went to sleep, she stripped into smallclothes with her back to him and brought a raggedy fur up around herself. She had dragon facts swirling in her head and dreamt of them that night.


	9. IX: Ny Sar

…

IX.

Ny Sar

 **D** ays passed much the same. Tyrion slept fitfully in the nights. Three days later, the sound of Alyce waking and dressing woke him at dawn.

He watched her dress in the dimness; he looked long at the sight of her legs and backside in only smallclothes before she pulled pants on. Her thighs were hard and strong, so unlike the soft, fleshy thighs of most young women. She had dimples in her lower back right above her backside. The sight made him hard.

The small of her back was beautiful, as were her shoulders. They were rounder and fuller than other women's due to her training with sword and shield. Her thick, wavy raven hair spilled down her almost bare back. But then she was pulling clothes over her head, and Tyrion sat up and pulled on boots.

While Alyce was still strapping on her swordbelt and pulling on her boots, Tyrion left the hold. Griff was squinting restlessly across the river. Septa Lemore came out in her white bathing robe, cinched at the waist with a woven belt of seven colors. As Griff left to enter the hold, Lemore greeted Tyrion.

"Good morrow, Hugor. How did you sleep?"

"Fitfully, good lady."

"The symptom of a wicked mind. Will you pray with me and ask forgiveness for your sins?"

"No, but do give the Maiden a long, sweet kiss for me."

Laughing, the septa walked to the prow of the boat.

"Plainly, this boat was not named for you," Tyrion called as she disrobed.

"The Mother and Father made us in their image, Hugor. We should glory in our bodies, for they are the work of the gods." She slipped into the water.

Alyce appeared on deck and glanced at the septa. She went right to work helping Ysilla feed wood chips and coals to the brazier for their breakfast. Ysilla had bacon and dough for biscuits and the sight made Alyce's stomach gurgle with hunger.

The septa climbed back onto the deck, water trickling down her naked body. The septa was an older woman, but still very handsome, with a strong, lean build, and thick, healthy hair. She walked like a woman used to men and to her own sexuality, strikingly unlike the septas Alyce had grown up knowing. There was piety in Lemore's words more often than not, but also sometimes the hint of double meaning, and the lit in her voice was perhaps more sensual than a pious septa's should be. She had also borne a child, as evidenced by old, faint stretch lines on her stomach and sides. Alyce sensed Lemore's garb was as much a disguise as Griff's.

Tyrion was savoring the sight of her.

"Did you see the turtle, Hugor?" Lemore asked him, wringing out her hair. "The big ridgeback?"

"I missed the ridgeback." His tone was impish. Alyce rolled her eyes at Ysilla who saw it and the older woman's eyes lit with amusement for a moment.

"I am sad for you," Lemore replied, slipping her robe about her again. "I know you only rise so early in the hopes of seeing turtles." She hung her septa's crystal about her neck.

Alyce shook her head slightly. Like everyone aboard the _Shy Maid_ , Septa Lemore had her secrets.

Yandry pulled up the anchor, slid one of the long poles into the water, and pushed them off. He went to the tiller. Alyce was placing clumps of dough on the brazier for Ysilla while the woman put an iron pan on the heat for the bacon. If fish were caught, they would have fish for breakfast as well, but there were none today. Tyrion liked to steal a hot biscuit or two while they were still browning, evading Ysilla's fearsome wooden spoon.

The smell of bacon soon fetched Duck and Young Griff up from the hold. Duck sniffed over the brazier, received a snack of Ysilla's spoon, and then went to have a piss off the stern. Young Griff joined him, as did Tyrion. As their respective arcs curved into the river, Tyrion quipped, "Now here is a sight to see. A dwarf, a lad, and a duck making the mighty Rhoyne that much mightier."

Yandry snorted. "Mother Rhoyne has no need of your water, Yollo. She is the greatest river in the world."

"Big enough to drown a dwarf, I grant you," Tyrion replied, tucking himself away and turning. "The Mander is as broad, though. So is the Trident, near its mouth. The Blackwater runs deeper."

"You do not know the river. Wait, and you will see."

The bacon turned crisp, the biscuits golden brown.

"Time for bacon." Young Griff grinned.

"Good bacon," said Ysilla. "Sit."

She fed them on the afterdeck, pressing honeyed biscuits on Young Griff and hitting Duck's hand with her spoon whenever he made a grab for more bacon. Tyrion carried a bacon-filled biscuit to Yandry at the tiller, who thanked him. Alyce helped Duck raise the _Maid's_ big lateen sail.

"There is no law above the Sorrows," said Yandry. "Not for a thousand years."

"And no _people_ as far as I can see," commented Tyrion.

"You do not know the river, Yollo. A pirate boat may lurk up any stream, and escaped slaves oft hide amongst the ruins. The slave-catchers seldom come so far north."

"Slave catchers would be a welcome change from turtles."

When the bacon was gone, Duck punched Young Griff in the shoulder. "Time to raise some bruises. Swords today, I think."

"Swords?" Young Griff grinned. "Swords would be sweet."

Alyce and Tyrion helped the lad dress for the bout, in heavy breeches, padded doublet, and a dinted suit of old steel plate. Ser Rolly shrugged into his mail and boiled leather. Both set helms upon their heads and chose blunted longswords from the bundle in the weapons chest. They set to on the afterdeck, having at each other lustily whilst the rest of the morning company looked on.

When they fought with mace or blunted longaxe, Ser Rolly's greater size and strength would quickly overwhelm his charge; with swords the contests were more even. Neither man had taken up a shield this morning, so it was a game of slash and parry, back and forth across the deck. The river rang to the sounds of their combat. Young Griff landed more blows, though Duck's were harder.

Alyce watched them with quick, slightly-narrowed eyes, evaluating and learning their fighting style. It was very Westerosi, and she was pleased to see that the Dornish and Braavosi tactics she knew were not among their repertoire. She did not have anything near their strength or size, but she knew she had enough speed and unfamiliar skill in order to be a match for them. She did not fight like men and knights did, and that would always catch them off guard.

After a while, the bigger man began to tire. His cuts came a little slower, a little lower. Young Griff turned them all and launched a furious attack that forced Ser Rolly back. When they reached the stern, the lad tied up their blades and slammed a shoulder into Duck, and the big man went into the river.

He came up spluttering and cursing, bellowing for someone to fish him out before a snapper ate his privates. Tyrion tossed a line to him. "Ducks should swim better than that," he said, as he and Yandry were hauling the knight back aboard the _Shy Maid_.

Ser Rolly grabbed Tyrion by the collar. "Let us see how dwarfs swim," he said, chucking him headlong into the Rhoyne. Alyce moved forward from where she was leaning against the opposite rail, worried about Tyrion's ability to swim. Young Griff was fetching a pole to give him so she relaxed as she saw he could paddle passably well. He grunted and grabbed into the offered pole and Young Griff hauled him back up.

"You are not the first to try and drown me," Tyrion told Duck as he poured river water from his boot, seeming in good spirits despite his abrupt swim. "My father threw me down a well the day I was born, but I was so ugly that the water witch who lived down there spat me back." He pulled off the other boot, then did a cartwheel along the deck, spraying all of them. Alyce laughed, surprised.

Young Griff laughed as well. "Where did you learn that?"

"The mummers taught me. My mother loved me best of all her children because I was so small. She nursed me at her breast till I was seven. That made my brothers jealous, so they stuffed me in a sack and sold me to a mummer's troupe. When I tried to run off, the master mummer sliced up my face, so I had no choice but to go with them and learn to be amusing."

Tyrion set back to drying his toes. Septa Lemore told him, "You have a gift for making men smile. You should thank the Father Above. He gives gifts to all his children."

"He does," Tyrion agreed pleasantly, though his eyes looked somewhat dark. Picking at his wet clothes, Tyrion went into the hold while Young Griff retired with the septa to be schooled in the faith of the seven faces of god. When the dwarf returned to the deck, Duck had a good guffaw when he emerged.

He made a comic sight. He, Alyce, and Septa Lemore had labored the last few days over the clothes Illyrio had sent with them for Tyrion had had done to them what Griff had instructed. Each garment had been slit apart, tailored to fit Tyrion better, and then sewn back together joining half of this and half of that to fashion a crude motley. Despite the demeaning task, Tyrion had seemed to enjoy the needlework and Alyce had enjoyed both his and Lemore's company while they had worked together on the project.

She gazed at the dwarf, thinking about him. Dressed in this ugly motley, he looked every bit the useless, disgusting stooge she had seen when she first saw him passed out drunk in Illyrio's garden. But she knew now that there was a man within the motley. And not just within the motley he wore, but also the motley nature had bequeathed to him. There was a clever mind behind those disgruntling mismatched eyes, and if she closed her own eyes, his voice became the handsomest voice on the ship. As smooth and pleasant as Young Griff's, but deeper. Refined. Lordly. A voice with a joke flavoring it at every turn, but that might ring truly beautiful if ever it reached for sincerity.

Tyrion fetched his parchment and ink and Alyce nicked an interesting-looking book from Haldon's cabin. She lay on the deck on her stomach reading while Tyrion sat on the cabin roof writing everything he knew about dragons. If he was writing something particularly interesting, he would call down to Alyce about it. Her knowledge of dragons was very rudimentary, and she liked to learn from him. Sometimes she asked to see his notes after he was done for the day.

The Halfmaester appeared on deck, yawning, and peered at Tyrion. He stalked to the side of the boat to piss down at the sun where it shimmered on the water. "We should reach the junction with the Noyne by evening, Yollo," he called out.

Alyce looked up as Tyrion glanced down at him.

"My name is Hugor," he said to the Halfmaester. "Yollo is hiding in my breeches. Shall I let him out to play?"

"Best not. You might frighten the turtles." Haldon's smile was sharp as a blade. "What did you tell me was the name of that street in Lannisport where you were born, Yollo?"

"It was an alley. It had no name."

"I see you have been defacing more good parchment."

"Not all of us can be half a maester." Tyrion put his quill aside and flexed his stubby fingers. "Fancy another game of _cyvasse_?"

Alyce rolled her eyes. The two had been at Haldon's board game— _cyvasse_ —for two days now. They played at least twice a day and Haldon always defeated him.

"This evening. Will you join us for Young Griff's lesson?"

"Why not? Someone needs to correct your errors."

Haldon looked to Alyce, walking a few steps. "You are welcome as well, Alyce. The lad pushes himself harder when you are there to watch."

She smiled a little. "I shall make an appearance for the sake of his studies, then."

Golden evening light was slanting through the wavy yellow glass of Haldon's cabin's sole round window. Haldon sat behind the writing desk, Young Griff in a chair before the desk, and Tyrion on the low bunk to the left. Alyce took up a stool to the right of them wordlessly.

The lesson began with languages. Young Griff spoke the Common Tongue as one born to it and was fluent in High Valyrian, the low dialects of Pentos, Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys, and the trade talk of sailors. Alyce herself could only boast knowing rough Pentoshi, trade talk, and enough High Valyrian to read it well and speak it passably. Since the dialects of Pentos, Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys were all offspring of High Valyrian, a Pentoshi dialect could be roughly understood in Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys, though the similarities between the dialects lessened every generation. They were well on their way to becoming separate languages. The Voltentene dialect was as new to Tyrion and Alyce as it was to Young Griff, so every day the three of them learned more words while Haldon corrected their mistakes. Meereenese was harder; Alyce barely tried to commit its words to memory. Its roots were Valyrian as well but the tree had been grafted upon the harsh, ugly tongue of Old Ghis. "You need a bee up your nose to speak Ghiscari properly," Tyrion complained. Young Griff had laughed at that, but Haldon had been unmoved.

The boy's ear was good with tongues. Alyce struggled with Meereenese and Ghiscari, but was quick student in advancing her already excellent High Valyrian and at learning Volentene.

Geometry followed languages. There the boy was less adroit. Haldon was a patient teacher, however, and Tyrion made himself of use in this area. Alyce enjoyed the puzzles mathematics posed and had the mind for it, but the theoretic had no realistic application and seemed to her merely exercise for the mind. It did not hold her attention as languages, history, and politics did because it did not seem as relevant for understanding the world.

Unlike Alyce and Tyrion, Young Griff found history to be his most tiresome subject. He had a good mind for memorization, but he recited everything in a thoroughly bored tone.

Alyce complimented his memory after he reeled off the history of the Elephants and Tigers of Volantis at Haldon's behest.

He shrugged.

"I can't do that with history," she told him, "but I can memorize full poems and songs more easily than most." She smiled. She was proud of that particular talent.

When Haldon finally freed them all, Tyrion remained to play at _cyvasse,_ and Alyce followed Young Griff onto the deck. The boy went to assist Yandry with the sails and poles for a time while she took up her book again and sat beside the cold brazier. The evening was warm and slightly buggy, though the movement of the pole boat helped to lessen it. Alyce had not bathed in two days and that helped keep the gnats off her as well.

She looked up as Young Griff dropped into one of the wooden chairs beside her.

"Yandry says we'll see Ny Sar before dark," he told her.

"Nymeria's city?" Alyce's eyebrows rose high on her forehead. Many stories of that warrior princess' mighty city came to mind.

"Yes. But it's only ruins now. When we get there, the River Noyne will join with this river. And three more rivers will join with us—the Qhoyne, Lhorulu at Chroyane, and then the Selhoru—before the Rhoyne is as wide as she becomes."

Alyce glanced about them. The river there were currently traveling down almost matched the Mander or the Trident. "That will be quite a sight."

"Yes." The boy smiled widely, pleased to impress her. In the slanting light, his eyes flashed purple. Alyce's eyes again lingered on the fair, almost silver roots that could be glimpsed growing in at his forehead. She took a breath in through her nose and then glanced at the eastern sky.

"The air smells heavier. Like rain perhaps," she commented. Young Griff also looked toward the grey in the east and took a long sniff. After a moment, he turned back to her. "So," he began, "you said you knew poetry. I have never had much patience for it, but I like ones about knights and war. Do you know any like that?"

"There is one about a long-ago joust that I know. Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes." He smiled, leaning back in the rough chair, and put his boots up on top of the brazier.

Alyce obliged him, hoping the words to _The Lily and the Rose_ had not left her.

"When Summer on the earth was queen _  
_She held her court in gardens green _  
_Fair hung with tapestry of leaves, _  
_Where threads of gold the sun enweaves _  
_With checkered patterns on the floor _  
_Of velvet lawns the scythe smoothes o'er, _  
_Through knights and ladies fair be-dight _  
_In silk attire, both red and white, _  
_A whispered word among them goes _  
_Of how the Lily flouts the Rose, _  
_Suitors for Summer's favor dear, _  
_To win the crown of all the year— _  
_And how each champion brave would fight, _  
_Queen Summer to decide the right. _  
_Then shrill the wind-winged heralds blew; _  
_The lists were set in Summer's view, _  
_With blazoned shields, and pennons spruce _  
_Of fluttering flag and fleur-de-luce: _  
_And spread with 'broidered hangings gay, _  
_Till all was ready for the fray."

It pleased her to recite something familiar and old-fashioned in all that was unfamiliar about this journey. Young Griff was watching the evening sky with his head tilted back where the first stars of evening were beginning to glow. As Alyce continued, Septa Lemore came down from the roof of the hold and took up a seat beside Young Griff to listen.

"Between their banners white and red, _  
_Of Rose and Lily overhead, _  
_Queen Summer took her judgment seat, _  
_Whom all the crowd did greet. _  
_Came first the glowing Rose in view, _  
_With crimson pennon fluttering new; _  
_With glittering spines all armed he came, _  
_With lance and shield—a rose aflame. _  
_Nor long the Lily knight delayed; _  
_In silver armor white arrayed, _  
_He flashed like light upon the scene, _  
_A lamp amid the garden green."

"You recite beautifully, Alyce," Lemore complimented when Alyce paused for a beat.

"Thank you."

"Did someone teach you?" asked Young Griff.

"No, I found it in a book of ballads and liked it. I read it before bed for a week and then it was in my head for always." She smiled. "I do not have the mind for _cyvasse_ or remembering specific names and dates. But I do like rhythm in words."

"There is more, right?" Young Griff asked, unsatisfied.

"Yes, of course." Alyce began again, and as she spoke, Tyrion crept back up on deck. He steadied himself wearily against the hold wall and when he heard Alyce's metered voice, he peered at her, Young Griff, and the septa, and waddled stiffly over to listen. The sun hung low above the reed-beds along the western bank, and the wind had picked up a touch.

"The summer winds the onset blew: _  
_With level lance each champion flew, _  
_And clashed together, mid a snow _  
_Of petals on the grass below. _  
_Pressed eager then the gazing rows: _  
_Some cried, 'the Lily!' some, 'the Rose!' _  
_But while the fate of battle hung, _  
_Again the silver trumpets sung; _  
_And, sudden charging from each side, _  
_Of Roses and of Lilies ride _  
_A host to still maintain the strife _  
_For roses or for lilies' life. _  
_Until at last up-rose the Queen: _  
_And caused the zephyr horns to blow _  
_A truce, the victor's crown to show. _  
_But like a garland on the ground _  
_Of roses and of lilies found, _  
_So linked and locked in strife they lay _  
_Each silver stem and clinging spray, _  
_The doughty champions could not rise _  
_Before the Queen to claim her prize. _  
_So to the field of battle down _  
_She stepped, with rose and lily crown _  
_Of silver and of gold fair wrought; _  
_And thus Queen Summer spoke her thought: _  
_And to each warrior thus did say: _  
_'Read in the fortune of your fray _  
_Fit emblem sweet of unity, _  
_Nor Rose nor Lily plant on high, _  
_But side by side in equal right, _  
_And pleasant cheer the Red and White: _  
_That men and maids be glad to see, _  
_Always in pleasant company, _  
_Life and Love close linked together, _  
_And strong to bear times' wintry weather _  
_Love not consumed in passion's heart _  
_But golden flamed and steadfast, sweet: _  
_Time's snows shall quench not, though they hide: _  
_Each spring renews the rosy tide: _  
_Each lover in his lady's face _  
_Sees roses blent with lilies' grace: _  
_The poet and the painter praise _  
_This heraldry of summer days; _  
_And every garden sweet that blows _  
_Doth set the Lily by the Rose. _  
_Peace, then in all my borders be, _  
_Beneath the silvern olive tree.' _  
_Echoed deep from bosky dell, _  
_Measured music soft did swell, _  
_Till, from the leafy forest side, _  
_The sweet-tongued nightingale replied, _  
_Dissolved in streams of silver sound, _  
_Merged in the moonlight, lost and found; _  
_So like dancers when in shade, _  
_Of Summer's verdant night…they fade." _  
_

"That was lovely," Lemore complimented, her voice a contented hum.

Young Griff did not seem to know what to make of it. "Why do you like it? What does it mean?"

"Summer ends, lad," Tyrion murmured. "Summer ends."

"The Summer Queen spoke of the unity of foes," argued the septa gently. "And that with life and love united, we can bear anything. The Faith teaches much the same."

"It is a dream—a story," Tyrion returned. "It admits it in the end. The nightingale's song is lost, the dancers are lost, and summer fades. The ideal fades."

Alyce agreed with him—the ending was her favorite part—but she did not wish to paint such a gloomy picture for Young Griff and the septa. "My favorite thing about a good poem is that it holds meaning and truth no matter what you believe. It can be interpreted according to the beliefs of the listener. What did you hear in it, Griff?"

The boy thought for a moment. "That taking on your equal in battle is foolish. That there is peace and laughter in summer, but perhaps not so in winter. And…well, the poem surrounded mentions of love with words like 'consume' and 'fire,' and connected the lily to life and snow and grace. It is as if without some sort of temperance, just love itself or the passion of it is destructive, maybe, like fire. But without it, life would have no passion and would not survive the winter. They need each other and should not be in opposition. Does that make sense?"

Alyce, Tyrion, and the septa all gave him appreciative looks.

"I think that is an excellent interpretation, dear," Lemore praised warmly. Alyce nodded her agreement, smiling at the boy. He smiled back, pleased to impress her. He then looked east, where darkness was gathering behind a rocky island. The wind began to gust and rip.

"Storm's in the air," Yandry told all aboard the deck.

"Dagger Lake is ahead of us, where pirates prowl," the septa added. "And beyond that lie the Sorrows."

The island fell away behind them. Ruins rose among the eastern bank: crooked walls and fallen towers, broken domes and piles of rotted wooden pillars, streets choked by mud and overgrown with purple moss. A dead city, ten times as large as Ghoyan Drohe. Turtles inhabited this city now, big bonesnappers. They basked in the late sun, brown and black hummocks with jagged ridges down the center of their shells. A few saw the _Shy Maid_ and slid down into the water, leaving ripples in their wake. This would not be a good place for a swim.

Then, through the twisted, half-drowned trees and wide wet streets, she glimpsed the silvery sheen of sunlight upon water. _Another river rushing toward the Rhoyne. Noyne, as the boy had said._ The ruins grew taller as the land grew narrower, until the city ended on the point of land where stood the remains of a colossal palace of pink and green marble, its collapsed domes and broken spires looming large among a row of covered archways. More bonesnappers slept in the slips where once half a hundred ships might once have docked.

 _Nymeria's palace. And all that remains of Ny Sar, her city._

Alyce tried to imagine what it might have looked like during the years it shone and teemed with life and light. It made her nostalgic for long-ago days she had never known.

"Yollo," shouted Yandry as the _Shy Maid_ passed the point, "tell me again of those Westerosi rivers as big as Mother Rhoyne."

"I did not know," he called back. "No river in the Seven Kingdoms is half to wide as this."

The new river that had joined them was a close twin to the one they had been sailing down, and that one alone had almost matched the Mander or the Trident.

"This is Ny Sar, where the Mother gathers in her Wild Daughter, Noyne," said Yandry, "but she will not reach her widest point until she meets her other daughters. At Dagger Lake, the Qhoyne comes rushing in, the Darkling Daughter, full of gold and amber from the Axe and pinecones from the Forest of Qohor. South of there the Mother meets Lhorulu, the Smiling Daughter from the Golden Fields. Where they join once stood Chroyane, the festival city, where the streets were made of water and the houses made of gold. Then south and east again for long leagues, until at last comes creeping in Selhoru, the Shy Daughter who hides her course in reeds and withes. There Mother Rhoyne waxes so wide that a man upon a boat in the center cannot see a shore to either side. You shall see, my little friend."

Tyrion was staring toward a rippling in the water. He opened his mouth, raising a hand to point it out, when a horned turtle of enormous size came to the surface with a wash of water that rocked the _Maid_ sideways. Its dark green shell was mottled with brown and overgrown with water moss and crusty black river mollusks. It raised its head and bellowed, a deep-throated thrumming roar louder than a warhorn.

"We are blessed," Ysilla cried loudly as tears streamed down her face. "We are blessed, we are blessed."

Duck was hooting and Young Griff too. Haldon came out on deck to learn the cause of the commotion, but too late. The giant turtle had vanished below the water once again. "What was the cause of all that noise?" the Halfmaester asked.

"A turtle," said Tyrion. "A turtle bigger than this boat."

"It was _him_ ," cried Yandry. "The Old Man of the River."

Tyrion grinned. His eyes lingered on the smiling Young Griff who had leapt up onto the deck rail to gaze into the river where the great turtle had disappeared. Alyce followed his gaze.

That evening, thunderclouds gathered above them slowly, further darkening the sky. They hung heavy in the humid air. Alyce did some exercises near the bow of the boat. She liked the smell of the coming rain, but she felt anxious as they moved toward Dagger Lake. Stretching and taxing her muscles helped her physically work off some of her worry.

Young Griff came to the front of the boat to watch her finish the last of her exercises. Tyrion sat in one of the rickety chairs near the brazier, half watching her and half watching the sky and its clouds. There was a gentle rolling rumble and then suddenly rain began to fall. In a few seconds it turned into a deluge, and Alyce and Young Griff laughingly raced for the entrance to the hold. They shoved at each other, soaking wet already, and the boy blocked the doorway in jest. Alyce wiped some sopping black hair away from her face and tugged one of his legs out from under him with her foot. As he went down, she switched their positions. Young Griff righted himself, and, laughing, gave a mighty push into her shoulder that caused her to cave and let him through.

He stood in the hall, blinking the water away from his eyes and waiting for her to follow. She was waiting for Tyrion, however. He saw that and gave her a brief quizzical look before turning and ducking into the cabin where his father slept.

Alyce went back out into the rain. She squatted by Tyrion, still sitting in the chair.

"Aren't you coming in?"

"And get trampled by you two flirts? I didn't want to risk it."

"He is a sweet boy, but too young and innocent for me, as you well know," she muttered back. Tyrion did not look at her.

"You should come out of the rain," she told him gently, in a voice she used only for him. Finally he met her eyes. There was a softness in them for just a moment, but then it quickly hardened over. His tone was just as apathetic as his eyes as he replied, "After everything that's tried to kill me, I don't think rain could do any harm." He got off the chair and walked with his short strides alongside her back to the hold.

In the store room, they shed their dripping clothes by candlelight. Alyce dried herself with one of her towels once she was in only her underclothes; Tyrion changed quickly into another set of his new motley. After she was relatively dry, Alyce wrapped herself in one of the quilts they had and turned her back to Tyrion to open her Targaryen family history.

He did not inquire after what she was reading. Alyce did some math in her head while her eyes traced the names and birth and death dates. Where there any male Targaryens listed who would be around eighteen years of age now? There were none living, just as she had thought. She almost closed the book again, about to write Young Griff's looks off to a bastard by-blow of some Targaryen. Perhaps even a Blackfyre. Dragon enough to perhaps bring some pleasure to the queen. Bastards were relations nonetheless. But the math she had done made her pause. The birth dates of Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen, the children that were slain by the Lannisters, would put the children—or more specifically, Aegon—around the right age if they had been alive. Rhaenys would have been in her mid twenties, but her brother would have been seventeen.

She stared at the birth date and then slipped the bound pages under her pillow slowly. She laid awake thinking even after Tyrion had blown out their candles.


	10. X: Where Pirates Prowl

…

X.

Where Pirates Prowl

 **A** s they approached the mouth of Dagger Lake, Duck went into the hold to wake Griff. They both emerged with their mail and boiled leather on and their swords and knives at their belts. Alyce went into the hold to shrug her own boiled leather vest over her clothes. She slipped an extra knife with its strap up around her calf as well. They had not encountered any trouble so far, but it was always worth it to be prepared. Hopefully her little cretin of a dwarf could keep as out of trouble as possible, but then again, he was always a surprise.

She glanced at her bow and quiver, but decided against it. She did not want to appear too worried and cause the boy concern.

The edges of the lake were weedy, but the center looked deep. Brown and sand-colored stone piles on the land and half-submerged in the water were all that were left of whatever proud buildings had once looked over this lake. Some had intricate carvings in them. Alyce noted faded water sprites and dragons with arched necks and webbing between their claws.

She perched on deck near to where Tyrion sat in one of the rickety chairs, her eyes scanning the canals and bends as Duck's, Griff's, and Young Griff's were. Young Griff every so often looked to his father, and once Alyce saw him change his standing position to better mirror Griff's. It had amused her briefly, but not for long. The canals had turns where pirate vessels could easily hide, and though Haldon had assured them that the pirates were almost always after only the more valuable items on ships coming up river from Volantis, she still felt there was something about their boat that might interest curious eyes. Westerosi men in mail, a woman, a dwarf…

Haldon came up on deck and reminded Young Griff they had a lesson to attend to today.

The boy glanced at his father. "I'm needed up here in case there are pirates."

Griff ignored him, as did Duck. Haldon answered patiently, "Even if there are any, they will not harry us. We carry nothing worth the hassle. The more important boats are coming upriver, not down."

It was handled well. The danger was downplayed and Griff did not appear to care one way or another. This fact alone seemed to be what persuaded Young Griff not to ignore his studies for that evening. Alyce suspected Griff was not as ambivalent as he appeared.

The boy, Haldon, and Lemore remained below. Though everyone else remaining on deck did not speak much, the lake was not quiet. Herons, frogs, songbirds, ducks, and bugs infused the air with noise and movement. Alyce swatted away a dragonfly, overwarm in her boiled leather. Though it would not cool her down, she did a series of stretches. Then she did them again. She tied her hard-to-tame black hair back in an imperfect but secure bun, tucking behind her ears what strands would not stay.

Later in the evening as the reddish sun was halfway over the horizon and the lake began to close and narrow again, Alyce felt her apprehension had been misplaced.

The long, stiff reeds cast shadows over the water, and the water reflected the red of the disappearing sun. Docks that might once have once proudly speared over the water and shined with a metallic glint had fallen sideways or sunk into the murk. A few remained usable, jutting outward to allow a boat to anchor at it, but the ends of them disappeared into overgrowth.

The water rippled, she heard the soft sound of wood against wood…

And a boat slid out of a canal to bar their passage.

Yandry could do nothing; they had been making good speed across the wide lake and the wind had them. If not for their poles and those of the pirates, the two boats would have taken damage colliding. As Yandry and Duck braced them with poles and the pirates shouted at each other in Ghiscari, Griff and Alyce drew.

Planks slammed down onto their railing, wide enough for two men to cross abreast. She and Griff rushed them, but six of the seven managed to board them, and they would have been overwhelmed if not for Duck joining the fray and Young Griff hurling himself back up on deck and into the fight with his bastard blade. _And no protective gear_ , Alyce groaned internally. She hoped the other two could protect the boy— _she_ had to keep Tyrion from getting a scar to match his first.

The pirates looked Rhoynish for the most part, though a couple were distinctly Ghiscari; they wore grimaces of surprise at the number of passengers trained at arms. Those belonging to the _Shy Maid_ had mail and better weapons and they soon dispatched two of the pirates; Duck sent one into the lake with a mighty two handed swing that half parted the man's head from his body. Griff easily and swiftly killed another with a jab through his unprotected throat. The pirates obviously had not expected them to be such a difficult conquest; there were shouts in Ghiscari from the pirates, but Griff and Duck barred their retreat.

Alyce was engaged with a sneering, tall man with arms thick as tree limbs. On his jaw and upper lip was a dark shadow from going a few days without shaving. Young Griff had both hands on his blade to her right and was driving back a short, sweaty stump of a river pirate. What looked like the best fighter had engaged Griff, and as they fought, another two went for the hold. Duck gave chase to them and Haldon managed to knife one as he blocked their entrance. The other shoved brutally back out to escape the trap of the hold, then drove toward Duck with a snarl. One of the man's two long knives met the blade of Duck's sword with the shriek of metal on metal.

"A little cully in men's clothes," Alyce's opponent taunted her in the Common Tongue, having recognized the boat's crew for Westeros. But his sneer quickly fell into a snarl of concentration. He could drive her back with a landed blow, but he did not often land one. She kept him moving, missing, following, and bleeding. Well-timed swipes of her best dirk left leaking lips of blood across his chest and arms. She kept an eye on Young Griff and Tyrion out of the corners of her eyes. Young Griff was holding his own while his father was beginning to overcome his own opponent. They fought in the grand but slower style of Westerosi knights, however, whereas she slipped about and jabbed like a snake with claws. She kept her back to Tyrion, always separating him from the pirate.

Suddenly the man she was engaged with leapt back and to the left away from her with a cry of pain and anger. Tyrion had picked up a fallen knife and had slung it into the pirate's upper thigh.

Alyce moved toward the pirate to take advantage of the distraction Tyrion had given her, but the man feinted, and instead of reengaging her, made an angry leap toward Tyrion. Alyce lurched after and her sword blocked him just before he could reach him. She blocked ferociously, but Tyrion was still too close to the fight and, blocking Alyce and shouting venomously in Ghiscari, the pirate managed to kick Tyrion into the chair he was standing near. The dwarf sprawled into the chair and across the deck, bloodying his palms. She slid in under and used all her speed and her skill with her knife and sword to drive the man off and back, anger pumping strength into her blood.

Duck finished off his opponent and immediately moved to protect Young Griff with his sword. The boy appeared to be doing very well, however, and began to drive his pirate toward Duck, grinning through a sheen of sweat. Griff was close to winning his fight. Even if he was not, he would soon be aided by his son and Duck, after the two had dispatched the pirate between them.

"When I am done skewering you, you little sweetmeat," Alyce's opponent snarled, "I'm going to make a hat out of your fuzzy little cunt,"

She parried; slid left. "No one would be able to say you did not have good taste."

He barked a laugh. "You are clever—perhaps I will make a pet out of you." He almost landed a blow but did not. She used his momentary assumption of the upper-hand to get her footwork ahead of him. She drove him further back and away from his boat and retreat.

"By all means chain me up," she japed lightly. She curved her lips in an alluring smile, eyebrows flitting upward. "We might like it so much you might never make that hat."

Surprise and piqued sexual interest flashed across the pirate's face, and his surprise was just the moment she needed to feint, block with her sword, and slash the man deep across one knee. As he pitched forward with a snarling shout, she flew in and struck out with her elbow, smashing the sweaty, thick-armed man in the face with one of the strongest parts of her smaller body. He reeled, now only on one knee.

"Or maybe the Stranger will fuck your eye sockets in each of the seven hells instead," she hissed to him, driving her sword up into his gut as she swiped right with her knife across his neck and sprayed the deck with his blood.

She turned to see Young Griff watching her while his father held the remaining pirate and Duck plunged his knife in and out of the man's heart deeply once with one swift, deliberate movement. Tyrion had been watching her from where he lay close by as well.

Griff and Duck began hauling corpses over the side while Yandry and Ysilla reappeared from the stern and began making way for them to move again. Alyce rather wanted to see what sorts of things were being carried in the pirates' boat, but obviously Griff had no interest in delaying. They left the boat where it was. Ysilla and Lemore, who had ventured back out of the hold, began to scrub the blood from the wood.

Young Griff was grinning, red in the face from exertion and victory, but Alyce ignored the rest of the crew while she knelt beside Tyrion. He was sitting awkwardly against the overturned chair, holding his hands in front of him gingerly. Alyce took them gently in hers to look at them and grimaced when she saw splinters of wood in his bloody scrapes.

"Stay here," she instructed him. "I'll be back to help you clean this." She slipped past Haldon hovering in the doorway of the hold and got her medicine pouch from her pack. She set to boiling lake water to clear his scrapes with and pulling splinters from Tyrion's hands with a small tin pincer tool as the _Shy Maid_ began to leave Dagger Lake behind them. Young Griff excitedly recounted moments of the pirate fight to anyone with ears and sucked down clean water from a skin. Not another ripple from passing canals and caves molested their way.

Tyrion grimaced in an ugly manner as she worked but did not twitch his hands away or give her any mouthy griping. His eyes as he glanced at her as she knelt close were pained but also softer than she had ever seen them but once. He had looked foggily up at her with tender eyes in Illyrio's garden. When likely he had imagined she was someone else.

She held his hands and wrists with gentleness, and though she could not be so soft with words or else invite his derision, she hoped he might feel tenderness and concern in her touch, and that it would warm his trust to her.

She was angry at herself for his wounds. She cleaned his hands with the water once she had retrieved all of the splinters and it had cooled somewhat. She then wrapped his palms gently in clean and boiled cloths dabbed with healing ointment.

As she did so, Young Griff sat down with a blustery exhale beside them and began, "Alyce, you're sofast! You don't fight like Duck does. You didn't even seem to get winded! But I think you did because he pushed you back a few times. And he hurt Hugor. But the moves you did—that twist, the feints, and that parry-slash with the knife, and your _footwork_ —you _have_ to show me. I had no idea you could fight like that—I mean, I believed you when you said you could, but I didn't really understand what you meant when you said you had to fight differently. I—"

"Let her alone," Griff interrupted. He glanced at them from where he stood tall beside the low rail with his arms crossed. His eyes turned back to searching the dark undergrowth for more trouble.

Young Griff frowned at him. He asked her pointedly, "Am I bothering you?"

She smiled a little. "No, but perhaps we could talk about it in the morning. We're usually in our beds by now and I am a bit tired." She was not tired, but she knew a dismissal from her to the boy was what Griff wanted. His face fell a little but he nodded.

"Tomorrow then. Footwork tomorrow." He looked at Tyrion. "Are you alright, Hugor?"

"No damage that will not heal," said Tyrion. "I think I shall sleep away the pain presently."

"Alright. Goodnight, then." He shot an irritated look at his father and then ducked into the hold. Haldon followed while Duck remained for a few minutes to help Yandry and Ysilla take in the sail and secure the pole boat for the night. Griff looked out into the dark of the river beyond as if he would have liked to continue. He was hungry for Volantis.

Alyce followed them all in and Tyrion followed her. She lit a shallow tallow candle so they had a touch of light in the store room. It was hot in the room, and Alyce knew she would have no need of any furs. Tyrion pulled off his boots with growls of pain. He wiped some sweat of his brow with a shaking arm and growled, "I would kill for a skin of wine."

Alyce said nothing. He pulled his shirt off and she followed suit, stripping into her underclothes and donning a loose-fitting cream-colored tunic. Taking her hair down, she felt Tyrion's eyes and met them.

"Thank you for your gracious chivalry," he said. He sounded half sincere, half in jest. His pants he had left on though he had pulled off his shirt, boots, and socks and was bare-chested. "I think I might have a muddy boot where my brains are if not for that raved-about footwork of yours."

"Thank you for that well-aimed knife. It slowed him down."

"Not enough," he grumbled. "But wounding and running is about all the help a dwarf can give in such a situation. You wouldn't know it from today, but somehow I led a sortie on the shores of the Blackwater."

"You were horsed that night."

"For most of it." He grunted softly as he laid himself flat on his sleeping mat.

Alyce had heard he was there at the Battle of the Blackwater, but had heard nothing about him leading any attacks. She changed the subject. "Well, you are not Duck or Griff's priority, and the boy should focus on protecting himself," she said nonchalantly. "That leaves you to me." She lay down on her mat and furs, aching where the pirate had managed to land blows.

"Why do you care if I live or die more than they, sweetling?" he asked. There was a tired bite to his words. A lonely, bitter bite. With a touch of suspicion.

"I honor the vows I make, and it happens I vowed to protect those on this boat," she answered stoutly. "You fit under that category." She paused a moment and then added, "And because despite the fact that you seem about as tender, sincere, or honorable a person as one of our morning snappers, I think you are a good man."

Tyrion snorted. "Good to know my protector has such a firm hold on reality. Let me remind you I am a kin—"

"Kinslayer, kingslayer, betrayer, monkey demon—I have heard it. Your new titles are your shield. You have given up on trying to prove to the world that you are not what they have always ascribed to you because it has gotten you nowhere. So you parrot their titles back at them."

If not for Varys' hints, she would not have been able to open her eyes enough to see any of it. She would only have seen an angry, cruel little man with a biting wit and no soul behind his japes. But she wanted to believe he was the person the man she trusted had described. She continued, "You have sunk under those descriptions. But I do not think you have completely become them. Even though it would be easier for you. You don't want to. And you are a defiant fuck. So maybe that will help you." She rolled over.

"You have known me a month and can therefore be nothing more than woefully ignorant as to the kind of man I am."

"You saw Baratheon in me in so short a time," she countered. "I see what I see in you."

"Ask the last woman I fucked how good a man I am."

"Good people can kill without becoming cruel."

"And people best left alone can kill without it becoming warning enough to others, apparently."

"Spare me your snapping, my Lord Turtle," she sighed and rolled to her other side.

Tyrion took up a mat and went to sleep on the hold roof. Alyce did not miss him.


	11. XI: Smell the Smoke

…

XI.

Smell the Smoke

 **T** yrion Lannister was waking on the cabin roof when Alyce snuck around the stern of the boat in a towel for a bath in the river.

She thought perhaps Septa Lemore's bathing at the other end of the boat would keep his attention, but she was wrong. He watched her slip off toward the stern and then, after she had slipped into the water, walked across the wide hold roof to sit and look at her.

"I will leave you if you would rather bathe in privacy," he said courteously.

She smiled, pleased he had offered, but shook her head. "Neither maid aboard this _Shy Maid_ is terribly shy." She stretched out on her back in the water. She knew Tyrion would be able to see her breasts, but did not care. If he found her attractive, much the better. If he wanted her, he might stick closer to her and be easier to watch. He also would be more prone to do as she said.

She realized, however, as her blood warmed and hummed with pleasure at being admired despite the chill of the water, that she also was glad of his attraction for the simple sexual nature of it. She wanted to be admired by him. She respected his mind and his discernment, and wanted to be found worthy.

The realization took her aback. She had never cared about the respect or desire of someone so…ugly. _I suppose that makes me conceited._ She frowned internally, both at this unbecoming fault in herself and the problematic nature of her reaction to his sexual interest.

"How are your hands?" she asked him.

He looked down at his bandages. "I haven't looked."

"Likely they could use more ointment. I'll re-bandage them when I'm dressed."

"I can take care of it."

"It is a bit difficult to bandage one's own hands, but if you feel the need to be stubborn about it, that's your decision."

He grimaced at her, but his eyes were soft. He was grateful for her care of him—she could see it in those mismatched eyes. "If you don't mind, then."

"I don't."

She scrubbed with the soap she had brought out, rings of suds floating outwards from her in the water like ripples, and when she was clean, she hoisted herself back into the poleboat.

She watched Tyrion's gaze trace over every dripping inch of her as she dried off and before she covered herself with her towel. There was a bulge in his newly-tailored pants that made what he thought of his appraisal obvious. She walked past him and back around into the hold.

As she was coming in, Young Griff was coming out, and they almost bumped into one another. The boy blushed when he saw she was in nothing but a towel. She smiled and slid past him, closing the door to the storage room behind her.

She dried off more thoroughly and dressed in clean clothes. As she was belting on her knives, Tyrion came in the storeroom. She glanced at him, picked up her medical pouch, and went to sit beside him. He watched her as she rubbed healing ointment on his raw scrapes and re-wrapped them in a bit of fresh gauze. She knew he had been startled and angry with her after what she had said last night, but he seemed to be warmer toward her now. Perhaps her words had won him in some way. She had hoped that they would.

Young Griff demanded to discuss footwork with her as soon as she came up to the deck. Duck did not seem to mind his pupil being otherwise occupied; he lounged in the patched clouds and sun on the deck as they drifted down the center of the incredibly wide river.

Alyce found she was not a good teacher. Especially not to impatient, cocksure boys.

She had learned her footwork from Dornish and Braavosi teachers, and she could not remember exactly _how_ they had taught these things to her. It had been years ago when she had just come of age that she had learned swordplay. Eventually, she and Young Griff reverted to simply standing side by side with him copying a move of hers—perhaps a movement of the feet, perhaps a swing, perhaps a feint or an evasion. Then they practiced that one move slowly and then more quickly until the lad had the hang of it. They had only covered four before Alyce called the lesson to an end for the day. Teaching was exhausting work, and the boy was demanding. He wanted to be master of everything.

Duck took over his weapons training. It was a day of maces and war hammers that never landed a blow. Duck took him through swings and blows in slow motion, to improve his arm strength and accuracy. Sweat poured down both of their bodies at the strenuous nature of the exercises, and both ended up discarding their shirts. Alyce enjoyed the show; both of them were very pleasing to look at. Young Griff glanced at her often, either unused to the attention or gratified by it.

She noticed too that when he looked up from scratching out the names and habits of ancient dragons on parchment, Tyrion watched her more often than he had before. His attention was far more complicated than the boy's, and she did not even attempt to hazard a guess as to what it might mean.

The day was a pleasant one. The weather was warm with patched clouds and sun so it did not get too unpleasantly hot on deck. Alyce had proven her worth in a fight and had earned more respect from everyone aboard. She laughed and joked with them, and when it came time for Young Griff's history lesson, she learned some new things while Tyrion added to Haldon's knowledge on some subjects.

Later in the evening, she watched the sun set on the hold roof. She had brought up one of Haldon's books with her but did not get a chance to read it because Young Griff joined her and they laughed and made japes at one another as the sun lit the sky with hazy oranges and pinks.

The poleboat came to a stop when the last of the daylight had faded faded from around them, and the boy was obliged to go wake his father. After helping Yandry and Ysilla ready the boat for the night, everyone went into the hold for their night's rest except for Tyrion. The dwarf sat on the railing on the prow, staring off into the wide, dark river.

Young Griff gave her a warm smile as he descended the roof's ladder. "Goodnight, Alyce."

"Sleep well."

The boy disappeared and Alyce stretched out onto her back with her arms beneath her head as a pillow. The night was clear and warm, the stars had a fierce, vast glow to them she did not often see, and she was not ready to turn in for the night. The river and the lush bank that paralleled it smelled fresh and alive. She took a couple great breaths in her nose to let it fill her. She had journeyed to a half dozen far-reaching places in Westeros, but none of those places had ever smelled like this eastern river land. She could hear the deep tones of Griff's voice as he and his so-called son spoke together in their room.

She heard Tyrion's waddling footfalls and the creak of the ladder before she saw him. He climbed onto the deck roof and took a seat beside her.

"The lad is fond of you."

"He is a sweet boy," she murmured, "though a trifle arrogant of his abilities. And, I think, of his future."

"And what is his future?" Tyrion was gazing hard at her, his mismatched eyes trying to calculate how much she knew. She realized her lunatic hunch could be right. And that he was already in on it. That irked her. Had he always known? Had she always been the only one in the dark? Or had he figured it out while on this voyage as she had?

"An alliance, I imagine," she replied deliberately, meeting his calculating gaze with her own cool one. She saw his eyes flash and knew for certain then.

He feigned ignorance. "Oh? Between whom?"

"I admit I did not know for certain until your lack of confusion just know confirmed it for me."

His mouth twitched. "Hm. I had assumed I was the only one that they intended to leave in the dark."

"I approve of their attempt at secrecy. Safer for the boy."

"Yes, although a correct guess at it and Haldon confirmed it for me."

Alyce scowled and snapped, "His protectors should keep a tighter hold on what they've been entrusted to keep quiet. I don't like that he would just confirm it for you."

"We made a gentleman's wager," Tyrion told her, grinning devilishly, "and I won fairly. He owed me a secret."

"I wouldn't care what I owed you," Alyce muttered. "I still wouldn't have told you anything. There is too much at stake. We're only talking about this because I could tell you knew."

"Is my face so easy to read?"

"To someone who is literate."

His eyes traced over her face. "You read men's faces and wield knives like a cat does its claws, but are overly sentimental about siblings you've never met and the duty of secret-keeping… _Your_ past would be an interesting tale as well, I wager."

"You make too many wagers."

He grinned at her cool retort. After a moment, he lied down beside her and looked up toward the stars as well.

"Well," he grunted, "we are not boring, you and I."

"This boat is full of interesting people."

He chuckled. "Yes…a maester with only half a chain…a soiled septa…an old knight in hiding…and his purple-eyed charge."

"Those eyes were my first clue."

"Mine as well. The blue does a job of hiding it."

"Not well enough." She turned to look at him. "Do you know what the queen is like? I have heard so many scraps of tales—and nothing I can believe."

"Illyrio had nothing but sweet praise. Listening to him, she could be the Maid and Warrior combined and made fiery flesh. Azor Ahai come again."

"She is not mad, like her father?"

"According to the cheesemonger, no."

Alyce nodded and was quiet again. She was about to ask another question about Daenerys when Griff's boots could be heard coming out of his room, through the hold hall, and out onto the deck. He took up his usual place by the brazier with a grunt.

After a pause, Tyrion asked her, "Do you know any constellations?"

"Well, everyone can find the King and the Three Brothers," she replied, gesturing upward. "And down here, the Snake River is visible early…and there is the Chalice…and I think that is the Sword and Shield?"

"No, that is too small. I don't see the Sword and Shield. Perhaps it already set or we cannot see it this far south…where is the Chalice again?"

She pointed the stars that made the cup out to him and he nodded. "Would that I had that down here—and the Giant to fetch me that barrel with which to fill it."

Alyce rolled her eyes. "Where is the Giant?"

Tyrion grunted and scooted close to show her properly. He pointed at a grouping in the sky. "He's mostly a club. And feet."

"Well, there are a couple head stars there. I can see it." She turned to glance at him. "Is there a lion constellation?"

He grimaced. "Up by the Smaller Dragon."

"I don't know where that is."

"Right of the orange-y star. His mane is a hook-shape."

"Oh, I see."

"Do you know any I might not know?"

"Hm." She gazed up, trying to recall the summer she had lain in a wheat field up the coast with a fisherman's son and they had swapped stories of the stars and made up a few of their own. She knew some religious stories which coupled with the stars that her mother had taught her, but she did not think Tyrion would care for them.

"There is a Fisherman…there, below the River. His net is made of those blue ones there. And there are the three Quarreling Lovers—at least, that's what I was taught."

"Where are they? I don't know them."

Alyce moved her head close to his and pointed and his eyes followed her fingers. His curling hair tickled the side of her face. "The two white ones so close together, those are two who have been lovers since they were very young. They married, but the yellowish one next to the top white star—she is a new woman that the man has discovered he finds more exciting and attractive than his childhood love."

"Well, if he loves her more, he should go with her. There needn't be a quarrel."

Alyce glanced at him, annoyed. "He's likely only more interested in this new woman just because she's new. And since he's only ever been with the first woman, he's wondering selfishly if he could get something better. Do you think he should leave the woman he vowed to love always and who has always been there for him—and likely has borne him children—for something new? There will always be prettier women."

"But if he stays with her, he has to pass up his chance to be with the woman who might have been a truer love than the one he pledged himself to. He might spend his life miserable if he doesn't leave."

"Everyone is hurt in the scenario," Alyce said, cracking a small smile. "That's why they are quarreling into eternity."

Tyrion turned toward her and propped himself on an elbow. He gave her a teasing smile. "You defend the first woman as if you know what it is like to be left."

Alyce shook her head easily. "I have only trifled with love. I always fall out of respect with men. They do something or say something so stupid or out of character for who I thought they were—even if it's for just a moment—and it always shows me I was thinking too highly of them. Then I can't see them like I saw them before. And I'm not attracted to them anymore."

"You think yourself above all of them?"

Alyce shifted uncomfortably. "I knew you would say that… No, it is not exactly that. I can be a rare fool at times as well, I'm full aware. All people make faults. Perhaps I simply have not found a man whose flaws I can tolerate. But it is more than that…" She shifted slightly. "Tolerable flaws alongside a mind—a mind and soul—that fascinates me. And does not cease to. So." She smirked in a self-deprecating fashion. "I shall end an old, shrewy maid."

"Without a doubt."

She seemed untroubled. She hummed her song a bit as they lay beside one another. _And yes, there's something you can send back to me: Mryish boots of Myrish leather._

"And what about you?" she asked. "You who could identify so well with the man swept up in new love? What are your stories?"

"I fell for a crofter's daughter when I was a boy and strangled a whore black in the face as a man. That is all you need know."

"You were missing quite a bit in the middle there. You'll never make a good storyteller with that habit." She gestured toward the sky. "That streaking across the sky where it looks like there are more stars—is there a name for it? Do you know why it is that way?"

Tyrion shrugged. "Those from the old east claim it is the searing mark of dragonfire from the greatest dragon. I have also heard that is a pathway. Perhaps the path of the gods. Who the bloody hells knows? Perhaps it is exactly what it looks like—more stars."

"But there is a darkness in it, too. A shadow."

"It's just the sky."

Alyce curled onto her side, disappointed Tyrion knew as little about the mysteries of the night sky as she. She watched his face, reading the small flickers of expression that crossed it as he looked upward.

As Griff walked away to the far bow to relieve himself, Tyrion murmured, "Bastardy is an odd thing."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it is this rather arbitrary rule that people have decided upon in order to keep things in order. There are no bastards in nature. You are the daughter of a king. If legitimate, you could have been a princess. By law, my niece."

"I would not have been myself. That person would have been the queen's daughter, not my mother's."

"Forget Cersei. That's not what I mean. If Robert's children—not just his trueborn, but all his blood children—were counted in the line of succession—"

"They would not be of noble blood. What if the first woman he bedded was simple? Would that child become the king or princess? Who the mother is is just as important."

"Yes," he agreed. "But it all seems so much like chance. Even with noble blood, as you say, children can be…"

"…Like Joffrey."

"Exactly."

"But he was not of Robert's blood."

Tyrion glanced at her. "No, he wasn't."

"Perhaps a babe of Robert's would have made a better king. Like the Henry you spoke of. Or Edric."

The poleboat creaked slightly as Griff paced the prow of the deck far in front of them like a hungry hawk staring into the surrounding blackness.

"Who was your mother?" Tyrion asked her.

"I am not going to tell you that, Tyrion. I need to keep _some_ secrets for my own protection. And hers. But she is no one particularly important, if that is what you were wondering."

Tyrion shrugged. "Just curious."

They lapsed into silence again. Alyce was growing somewhat sleepy but she was enjoying the conversation and did not want to leave. Tyrion was fascinating. He was clever and unpredictable. But he also had wounds. They lay beneath his surface, but when they were brushed against, he would growl and retreat into himself. He had made sure that there was no more tender flesh on his surface that could be made to bleed. He had thrown up an armor about himself. And in every word he spoke she heard the dead tone of someone at a ledge. Perhaps even someone who had already walked off.

Alyce remembered what it had felt like to carry him in her arms. She knew what he looked like naked and what he looked like sleeping. She had seen only for a few small moments his eyes look tender and warm, and she had seen even one genuine smile. His smiles from then on had been as much motley as the clothes he now wore…but once, deliriously drunk, he had smiled at her truly.

She had felt nothing for him then, in those first days—those first weeks. He had only been an animal to guard. But now she felt a duty to him as well as to Varys. She knew that if she carried him now she would do so gently. She would be gentle to try to make up a little bit for the rest of the world that had not handled him with gentleness. She knew how they thought of this man in the streets of King's Landing… To them, he was pure corruption. They did not think him human. Were the opinions of lords bound to be much different?

Tyrion noticed her gazing at him and turned his head to stare back.

"What is it?" he asked, sounding slightly annoyed or uncomfortable.

"Why do you ask that question that you ask? 'Where do whores go?'" she asked in a murmur. This was one mystery she could not puzzle out.

Tyrion grimaced, his mouth pinching and twisting into a hard line. She thought he would look away and make some cold jape, but he did not. "I asked my bloody bastard of a father a question before I put a quarrel through his bowels. I asked him where a certain woman was. And he told me she probably was 'wherever whores go.'"

"What woman?" Alyce was surprised. Tyrion did not seem to be holding onto a lost love. He seemed to her a man who had given up on everything to do with love. She also had to admit she felt a lick of jealousy. Tyrion was so discerning, clever, walled… It would take an incredible woman to be respected and loved by such a mind.

"One I had unknowingly wronged," his voice was low and somewhat strained, though he was working to keep it as light and unaffected as possible.

"Such a highborn thing to say," Alyce muttered. "' _Wherever whores go_.' Gods."

"Yes, it bothered me somewhat."

 _More than somewhat_. Alyce did not look at him; he was telling her personal matters and she did not wish to make him uncomfortable. But she could almost smell the smoke of what was burning in his heart.

They lapsed into silence again. Alyce feel asleep on her side and Tyrion watched her face for a while before he too rolled onto his back and let the gently rocking boat lull him to thoughtlessness.


	12. XII: The Bridge of Dream

…

XII.

The Bridge of Dream

 **T** he _Shy Maid_ moved through the fog like a blind man groping his way down an unfamiliar hall.

Septa Lemore was praying. The mists muffled the sound of her voice, making it sound small and hushed. Griff paced the deck, mail clinking softly beneath his wolfskin cloak. From time to time he touched his sword, as if to make certain that it still hung at his side. Rolly Duckfield was pushing at the starboard pole, Yandry at the larboard. Ysilla had the tiller.

"I do not like this place," Haldon Halfmaester muttered.

"Frightened of a little fog?" mocked Tyrion.

There was an awful _lot_ of fog. Alyce stood on deck in boiled leather with her arms crossed and the tendons in her legs and abs bunched tightly. She had regretted not having her bow and quiver nearby when last they were attacked, so they now lay near her on the deck. Her shortsword weighed down her left hip—a comforting weight—and she had various knives both in their sheaths at her belt and hidden on her person. She had tied up her hair tightly.

Her eyes strained, trying to pierce the fog in front of them but unable even to see even the end of their boat. It was no more than a dark mass and a glowing light of the lantern at the prow. The dampness caused gooseprickles to rise on her skin. She scowled and shifted slightly toward Tyrion, his close shadow. He was likely noticing her behavior, but she did not care. If he took even ten steps he was out of her sight in the fog, and that made her too anxious.

Young Griff stood with the third pole, to push them away from hazards as they loomed up through the mists. The lanterns had been lit fore and aft, but the fog was so thick that they looked like disembodied lights trailing ahead and after them. Tyrion had been tasked to tend the brazier and make sure the fire did not go out.

"This is no common fog, Hugor Hill," Ysilla insisted. "It stinks of sorcery. Many a voyager has been lost here—poleboats and pirates and great river galleys too. They wander forlorn through the mists, searching for a sun they cannot find, until madness or hunger claim their lives. There are restless spirits in the air here and tormented souls below the water."

"There's one now," said Tyrion lightly. Off to starboard a hand large enough to crush the boat was reaching up from the murky depths. Only the tops of two fingers broke the river's surface, but as the _Shy Maid_ eased on past, Alyce moved quietly to the rail to peer down to see the rest of the hand rippling below the water and a pale face looking up. She gripped the rail tightly though she was keeping her face cool and unmoved. Both Tyrion and Young Griff glanced at her often, perhaps for reassurance, and she knew the benefit of keeping calm when danger was all around. _There are curses in the air and water here. How can Tyrion not believe in magic when places like this exist?_

Of all the stories she had been told in her childhood by those who meant to frighten and entertain, two types had frightened her the most. Stories about hellhounds and stories about stone men. _I am a woman grown now and I know how to be brave._ Gooseprickles had teased up her arm hair again, but she rolled her shoulders to relax them away.

 _I am only meat and bone and death is simply nothing—neither bad nor good. What is the worst that could be done? Only pain, and I am as good at dealing out pain as any other._

Creeping grayscale was not death, though, nor pain…it was a creeping numbness that meant a slow, crippling, and ostracized death. The mortal form of greyscale began in the extremities: a tingling in a fingertip, a toenail turning black, a loss of feeling. As the numbness crept into the hand or past the foot into the leg, the flesh stiffened and grew calcified, grey, and cold. She had heard that there was a cure for greyscale—an axe or cleaver. Cutting off the afflicted part would sometimes stop the spread. But not always. Many sacrificed arms or legs to find the other growing grey… Blindness was common when the grey reached the face. In the final stages, the curse devoured the insides as well.

Alyce scowled out into the blank fog. _I will do my duty. And if I find grey making its way into me, well, I will push a knife through my throat. I will not be toyed with—not by the Shrouded Lord or anyone._

"You should not make mock," warned Ysilla to Tyrion. "The whispering dead hate the warm and quick and ever seek for more dammed souls to join them."

"That's enough of that," snapped Alyce. "It's useful to be wary of the poor bastards, but talking about them like that makes them sound like more than they are. We tossed pirates off our boat and we can toss stone men off as well. And more easily, as they're not like to be as quick."

Young Griff grinned at her and she was glad to see the anxious crinkle above his eyes had been smoothed by her words. She half-smiled back though her eyes soon returned to searching the never-ending fog again.

Haldon cleared his throat. "Hatred does not stir the stone men half so much as hunger." He wrapped a yellow scarf around his mouth and nose, muffling his voice. "Nothing any sane man would want to eat grows in these fogs. Thrice a year the triarchs of Volantis send a galley upriver with provisions, but the mercy ships are oft late and sometimes bring more mouths than food."

Young Griff said, "There must be fish in the river."

"I would not eat fish taken from these waters," said Ysilla. "I would not."

"We'd do well not to breathe the fog either," said Haldon. "Garin's curse is all about us."

"The only way not to breathe the fog is not to breathe," Tyrion muttered. "Garin's curse is only grayscale. Damp is said oft to be the culprit. Foul humors in the air. Not curses."

"The conquerors did not believe, either, Hugor Hill," said Ysilla. "The man of Volantis and Valyria hung Garin in a golden cage and made mock as he called upon his Mother to destroy them. But in the night the waters rose and drowned them, and from that day to this they have not rested. They are down there still beneath the water, they who were once the lords of fire. Their cold breath rises from the murk to make these fogs, and their flesh has turned as stony as their hearts."

Alyce wanted to snap at her to stop with her stories again but did not. Everyone was on edge, she knew, including herself, and she did not want to cause animosity. Tyrion put more wood chips on the brazier and scratched fiercely at the scar on his cheek.

Young Griff did not seem disturbed. "Let them try and trouble us—we'll show them what we're made of."

"We are made of flesh and blood, in the image of the Father and the Mother," said Septa Lemore. "Make no vainglorious boasts, I beg you. Pride is a grievous sin. The stone men were proud as well, and the Shrouded Lord was proudest of them all."

"Is there a Shrouded Lord?" Tyrion asked, his face red from the heat from the fire. "Or is he just some tale?"

"The Shrouded Lord has ruled these mists since Garin's day," said Yandry. "Some say that he himself is Garin, risen from his watery grave."

"The dead do not rise," insisted Haldon, and Alyce was glad for his rational input. "No man lives a thousand years. Yes, there is a Shrouded Lord. There have been a score of them. When one dies another takes his place. This one is a corsair from the Basilisk Islands who believed Rhoyne would offer richer pickings than the Summer Sea."

"Aye, I've heard that too," said Duck, "but there's another tale I like better. The one that says he's not like t'other stone men—that he started as a statue till a grey woman came out of the fog and kissed him with lips as cold as ice."

" _Enough_ ," said Griff. "Be quiet, all of you."

Septa Lemore sucked in her breath. " _What was that_?"

"Where?" Tyrion asked, squinting into the fog.

"Something moved. I saw the water rippling."

"A turtle," the prince announced cheerfully. "A big snapper, that's all it was." He thrust his pole out ahead of them and pushed them away from a towering green obelisk.

The fog clung to them, damp and chilly. A sunken temple doomed up out of the greyness as Yandry and Duck leaned upon their poles and paced slowly from prow to stern, pushing. They passed a marble stair that spiraled up from the mud and ended jaggedly in the air. Beyond, half-seen, were other shapes: shattered spires, headless statues, trees with roots bigger than their boat.

As they passed, more made itself visible. Proud, mightily columns of great buildings half-taken by creeping moss. Crumbling towers decorated with impossibly intricate sculpture. A handsome windowed coliseum that curved around and away into the fog. Perfect half-circle bridges that cast their reflection on the water. Proud archways arcing over the canals, fronted by crumbling homes. Occasionally glints of gold or silver would peek from down misty, forlorn canals or from beneath thick, grey moss.

"This was the most beautiful city on the river, and the richest," said Yandry. "Choroyane, the festival city."

The misty, forgotten ruins of the festival city drove a slow wave of melancholy through Alyce. She imagined the city alive and bright, lighting the night with all colors, its streets of waterways tinkling with song and laughter. She imagined they were traveling down what perhaps had been the greatest canal, lined with grand houses fronted with gold and silver. She imaged young girls running giggling up the marble steps, perhaps a masked lover's hand in theirs. She could almost hear the music and the gentle lapping of the water as it knocked small boats against one another.

A half-seen shape flapped by overhead, wings beating at the fog. Tyrion craned his head around to get a better look.

Not long after, another light floated into view. "Boat," a voice called across the water, faintly. "Who are you?"

" _Shy Maid_ ," Yandry shouted back.

" _Kingfisher_. Up or down?"

"Down. Hides and honey, ale and tallow.'

"Up. Knives and needles, lace and linen, spice wine."

"What word from old Volantis?" Yandry called.

"War," the word came back.

"Where?" Griff shouted. "When?"

"When the year turns," came the answer. "Nyessos and Malaquo go hand in hand and the elephants show stripes." The voice faded as the other boat moved away from them. They watched the light dwindle and disappear.

"Is it wise to shout through the fog at boats we cannot see?" asked Tyrion. "What if they were pirates?"

"The pirates will not sail the Sorrows," said Yandry.

"Elephants with stripes?" Griff muttered. "What is that about? Nyessos and Malaquo? Illyrio has paid Triarch Nyessos enough to own him eight times over."

"In gold or cheese?" quipped Tyrion.

Griff rounded on him. "Unless you can cut this fog with your next witticism, keep it to yourself."

Tyrion kept silent and blew on the coals to make them burn brighter. His expression was not pleasant. Alyce returned her eyes to scouting the blankness around them, flexing her fingers.

Duck and Yandry pushed against the poles. Ysilla turned the tiller. Young Griff turned the _Shy Maid_ away from a broken tower whose windows stared down like blind black eyes. The sail hung limp and heavy. The water deepened under the ship's hull until their poles could not touch bottom, but still the current pushed them downstream, until…

Something massive rose from the river, humped and ominous. Perhaps a colossal rock or hill…As the _Shy Maid_ grew nearer, the shape of it became clearer. A wooden keep could be seen beside the water, rotten and overgrown. Slender spires took form above it, some of them snapped off like broken spears. Roofless towers appeared and disappeared, thrusting blindly upward. Halls and galleries drifted past: graceful buttresses, delicate arches, fluted columns, terraces and bowers. All ruined, all desolate, all fallen.

The grey moss grew thickly here, covering the stones in great mounds and bearding all the towers. Black vines crept in and out of windows, through doors and over archways, up the sides of high stone walls. The fog concealed three quarters of the palace, but what they glimpsed was more than enough for Alyce to know that this island fastness had been ten times the size of the Red Keep and a hundred times more beautiful.

"The Palace of Love," Tyrion said softly.

Alyce's mouth was open slightly and she remembered to shut it. _The Palace of Love…this was the Palace of Love._

"That was the Rhoynar name," said Haldon somberly, "but for a thousand years this has been the Palace of Sorrow."

Alyce turned away from the ruins. She was anxious and did not want to add to her emotions a feeling of mourning over what had once been and was no more. Tyrion seemed unable to look away from it. His expression was off in some distant place.

There were a few moments of quiet as they moved past the ruins of the palace. Spires and sculpture appeared and were blotted out of view just as quickly by patches of fog.

Alyce glanced down at the water and saw a fallen statue of a woman in robes, submerged so that she was just below the surface. Her lovely marble face was partially obscured by green algae, but still Alyce could see she was smiling. It was an eerie image…a dream of those who lived here now lost to time.

A tilted stairway of pale pink marble rose up out of the dark water in a graceful spiral, ending abruptly ten feet above their heads.

After a few moments of quiet, Haldon told them, "Another hour should see us clear of the Sorrows. From there on, this should be a pleasure cruise. There's a village around every bend along the lower Rhoyne. Orchards and vineyards and fields of grain ripening in the sun, fisherfolk on the water, hot baths and sweet wines. Selhorys, Valysar, and Volon Therys are walled towns so large they would be cities in the Seven Kingdoms. I believe I'll—"

"Light ahead," warned Young Griff.

Alyce squinted to try and see better through the mist. The light was not the same as the light from the other boat. It was higher than a boat light would be and grew brighter as the _Shy Maid_ approached it. It was like a star, beckoning to them. Then it became three lights, and then a curving row.

"The Bridge of Dream," Griff named it. His voice was gruff and businesslike. "There will be stone men on the span. Some may start to wail at our approach, but they are not like to molest us. Most stone men are feeble creatures, clumsy, lumbering, witless. Near the end they all go mad, but that is when they are most dangerous. If need be, fend them off with the torches. On no account let them touch you."

Alyce's gooseprickles rose again.

"They may not even see us," said Haldon. "The fog will hide us from them until we are almost at the bridge, and then we will be past before they know that we are there."

As he spoke, the bridge grew larger. Smashed and broken, its pale stone arches marched off into the fog, reaching from the Palace of Sorrow to the river's western bank. Half of them had collapsed, pulled down by the weight of the moss that draped them and the thick black vines that snaked upward from the water. As their boat drew closer, Alyce could see the shapes of stone men moving in the light of the stone bridge's lamps, shuffling aimlessly around the sources of light like slow grey moths. Some were naked, others clad in shrouds.

She forced a shiver back down and slowly pulled her bow from her back into her arms. Silently, she nocked an arrow and held the two at her side, relaxed but ready. Tyrion was watching her do so and their eyes met. _I'm going to protect you_ , she wanted to say softly to him. _You above all. Do you know that?_

Griff drew his longsword. "Yollo, light the torches. Lad, take Lemore back to her cabin and stay with her."

Young Griff gave his father a stubborn look. "Lemore knows where her cabin is. I want to stay."

"We are sworn to protect you," Lemore said softly.

"I don't need to be protected. I can use a sword as well as Duck. I'm half a knight."

"And half a boy," said Griff. "Do as you are told. Now."

The youth cursed under his breath and flung his pole down onto the deck. The sound echoed queerly in the fog, and for a moment it was as if poles were falling around them. "Why should I run and hide? Haldon is staying, and Ysilla. Even Hugor."

"Aye," said Tyrion, "but I'm small enough to hide behind a duck." He thrust half a dozen torches into the brazier's glowing coals but did not watch the oiled rags flare up. Alyce did not stare directly at them, either, knowing the firelight would leave her nightblind for a few minutes.

"You're a _dwarf_ ," Young Griff said scornfully.

"My secret is revealed," Tyrion agreed. "I'm less than half of Haldon, and no one gives a mummer's fart whether I live or die. You, though…you are everything."

" _Dwarf_ ," growled Griff.

"Not now," Alyce snapped. The bridge was almost upon them.

A wail came shivering through the fog, fait and high.

Lemore whirled, trembling. "Seven save us all."

The enormous, broken bridge was a bare five yards ahead. Around its piers, the water rippled white as the foam from a madman's mouth. Forty feet above, the stone men moaned and muttered beneath a flickering lamp. Most took no more notice of the _Shy Maid_ than of a drifting log.

Alyce's bow was tight in her grip. She did not tremble, but she was as taut as straining rope. Then they were beneath the bridge, white walls heavy with curtains of grey fungus looming to either side, water foaming angrily around them. For a moment it looked as though they might crash into the right-hand pier, but Duck raised his pole and shoved off, back into the center of the channel, and a few heartbeats later they were clear.

They all had no sooner exhaled than Young Griff grabbed hold of Tyrion's arm. "What do you mean? I am _everything_? What did you mean by that? Why am I everything?"

Alyce moved close protectively to Tyrion and Young Griff gave her a fierce look.

"Why," replied Tyrion, "if the stone men had taken Yandry or Griff or our lovely Lemore, we would have grieved for them and gone on. Lose you, and this whole enterprise is undone, and all those years of feverish plotting by the cheesemonger and the eunuch will have been for naught…isn't that so?"

The boy looked to Griff. "He knows who I am."

"You're Young Griff," said Tyrion, "son of Griff the sellsword. Or perhaps you are the Warrior in mortal guise. Let me take a closer look." He held up his torch, so that the light washed over Young Griff's face.

"Leave off," Griff commanded, "or you'll will wish you had."

"Yes, you're very witty," Alyce snapped angrily at Tyrion. "Leave the boy alone."

"I'm not a boy," Young Griff snapped back.

But Tyrion was like a dog with a new hide; he would not let go. "It is almost as if someone wanted to keep you hidden while preparing you for…what? Now, there's a puzzlement, but I'm sure that in time it will come to me… I must admit you have noble features for a dead boy."

Young Griff flushed. " _I am not dead_."

"How not? My lord father—"

" _Hugor_!" Alyce interjected, trying to get him to keep his mouth shut. But he could not and he ignored her.

"—My lord father wrapped your corpse in a crimson cloak and laid you down beside your sister at the foot of the Iron Throne, his gift to the new king. Those who had the stomach to lift the cloak said that half your head was gone."

The lad backed off a step, confused. "Your—?"

"— _father_ , eye. Tywin of House Lannister. Perhaps you may have heard of him."

Young Griff hesitated. " _Lannister_? Your father—"

"—is dead. At my hand. If it please Your Grace to call me Yollo or Hugor, so be it, but know that I was born Tyrion of House Lannister, trueborn son of Tywin and Joanna, both of whom I slew. Men will tell you that I am a kingslayer, a kinslayer, and a liar, and all of that is true…but then, we are a company of liars, are we not? Take your feigned father, _Griff_ , is it?" Tyrion sniggered devilishly. "You should thank the gods that Varys the Spider is a part of this plot of yours. Griff would not have fooled the cockless wonder for an instant, no more than it did me. _No lord_ , my lordship says, _no knight_. And I'm no dwarf. Just saying a thing does not make it true. Who better to raise Prince Rhaegar's infant son than Rhaegar's dear friend Jon Connington, once Lord of Griffin's Roost and Hand of the King?"

"Be quiet," both Griff and Alyce commanded him in unison. Griff sounded uneasy; Alyce's voice was like a cat's hiss. Suddenly she sucked in her breath with another hiss and moved a few steps to the side of the boat. She glanced up at the familiar spire that had caught her eye, then down into the water. The face of a submerged statue smiled at her from just below the surface. The same face. She gripped the railing as a sudden fear cold as ice gripped her stomach.

"We're coming upon the bridge again," she said in a low, clear voice. "We're headed back to the bridge."

"That's not possible." Griff's voice had its confidence back and he sounded condescending. "The bridge is well behind us."

A tilted stairway of pale pink marble rose up out of the dark water in a graceful spiral, ending abruptly ten feet above their heads.

" _I'm_ _telling_ _you_ —" Alyce argued, her voice rising.

" _That's not possible_." Lemore's voice was shivery with quavering. "Ahead. A—a light."

All of them looked; all of them saw it.

" _Kingfisher_ ," said Griff, "or some other like her." But he drew his sword again.

"It's the bridge," Alyce snarled at him. She glanced to her left side as she pulled her bow up and at the ready. In a low voice, she muttered darkly, "Sure you still don't believe in curses, Tyrion?"

It seemed the heir of Casterly Rock had nothing to say.

Alyce glanced up at the sail that had not been raised and her expression was dark. They had no way to move but with the river.

Duck stood squinting, clutching his pole with both hands. After a time even Yandry stopped pushing, staring at the distant light.

Then the light became three.

"Inconceivable," said Haldon Halfmaester. "Rivers only run _one way_."

"Mother Rhoyne runs how she will," murmured Yandry.

"Get the prince below," Alyce growled. A shiver shook her. The stone men on the span began to wail. A few were pointing down at them.

Griff repeated her orders to Haldon but the current already had them in its teeth and besides that, the lad was too stubborn to be moved. They drifted inexorably toward the bridge, almost paralyzed by dread. Yandry stabbed out with his pole to keep them from crashing into a pier. The thrust shoved them sideways, through a curtain of pale grey moss.

Tyrion lost his footing as two mighty crashes sounded behind him and the deck tilted. He pitched toward the edge. He felt a hand grasp his clothing at his shoulder in a fist and he was wrenched backward away from the edge and its grey water churning below with a rush of relief as Alyce pulled him against her side. Tyrion grasped her leg for balance. "Thank you," he gasped.

Her hand at his shoulder pulled him tight against her for a brief moment. "Stay close to me," she hissed.

As Tyrion watched, a stone man crashed down into the boat. He landed on the cabin roof, so heavily that the _Shy Maid_ rocked again, and he roared a word down at them in a tongue Tyrion did not know. A second after he roared, one of Alyce's arrows took him in the neck. The shaft lodged there deeply in the stony flesh and something began to ooze, but the stone man did not seem to feel the pain. She feathered him with two more as another stone man landed like a pile of bricks beside the tiller. The weathered planks splintered beneath the impact, and Ysilla let out a shriek.

Duck was closest to her. The big man did not waste time reaching for his sword. Instead, he swung his pole, slamming it into the stone man's chest and knocking him off the boat into the river, where he sank at once without a sound.

Griff was on the first stone man the instant he jumped off the cabin roof. For a moment, the jump landed the creature almost directly onto the captain. He tried to block the weight with his sword, but the petrified flesh was too heavy and the man landed his claw-like hands on his arm before Griff hurled him off. The stone man stumbled back, regained balance, and then came at him again.

Alyce wrenched up a torch from the brazier, and with her sword in her right hand and a torch in her left, she and the captain drove the creature backwards. As the current swept the _Shy Maid_ beneath the bridge, their shifting shadows danced upon the mossy walls. When the stone man moved aft, Duck blocked his way, pole in hand. When he went forward, Alyce cut toward him with sword and torch and drove him back. He had no choice by the come straight at Griff. The captain slid aside, his blade flashing. A spark flew where the steel bit into the stone man's calcified grey flesh, but his arm tumbled to the deck all the same. Griff kicked the limb aside.

As Yandry and Duck came up with their poles to help force the creature over the side, a third appeared from around the hold and lurched toward Young Griff and Lemore, standing side-by-side near the hold. They were watching Griff's efforts and unaware of their danger.

Duck dropped his pole and rushed the third man, unsheathing his sword with a snarl. Haldon came forward with his torch. Tyrion vanished from Alyce's side as she took a moment to let two more arrows fly. The force of their impact stopped the man in his tracks long enough for Duck to reach Young Griff and Lemore and protect them with his sword. The stone man tried to block with his arm but he was slower than Griff's opponent had been, and Duck and Haldon were able to easily hack at him. Alyce lent her sword and torch, and together they moved toward the bow where Griff, Yandry, and Haldon were, slowly forcing the creature off the boat with the ends of their weapons.

By then the _Shy Maid_ had drifted out from under the wide broken bridge.

"Did we get them all?" called out Duck. He and Alyce had the third man pinned against the rail at the bow and were attempting to throw him off just with the force of their sword points. "How many jumped?"

"Three," called Tyrion, shivering at the stern at the other end of the boat where he and Young Griff stood.

" _Four_!" came a shout from Haldon. "Behind you!"

Tyrion turned and there he stood.

The leap had shattered one of his legs, and a jagged piece of pale bone jutted out through the rotted cloth of his breeches and the grey meat beneath. The broken bone was speckled with brown blood, but still he lurched forward, reaching for Young Griff. His hand was grey and stiff, but blood oozed between his knuckles as he tried to close his fingers to grasp. The boy stood staring, as still as if he too were made of stone. His hand was on his sword hilt, but he seemed to have forgotten why.

Tyrion kicked the lad's leg out from under him and leapt over him when he fell, thrusting his torch into the stone man's face to send him stumbling backwards on his shattered leg, flailing at the flames with stiff grey hands. There were shouts and shrieks from the bow of the boat seemingly far behind them. Tyrion slashed with the torch. _Back two more steps._

" _Move_!" he heard Alyce snarl to someone.

" _Did it touch the prince_?" called Lemore from behind, panicked. Her voice was muffled in the fog.

The creature ripped his torch out of his hands with a clubblike swing and howled as he staggered forward, his hands outstretched and grasping—not for him, but for the prince. Tyrion heard boots thundering behind him, saw torchlight coming, but knew help would be too slow.

He drove a shoulder into him.

It felt like slamming into a castle wall, but this castle stood upon a shattered leg. The stone man went over backwards, grabbing hold of Tyrion as he fell. They hit the river with a towering splash, and Mother Rhoyne swallowed up the two of them.

The sudden cold hit Tyrion like a hammer. As he sank he felt a stone hand fumbling at his face. Another closed around his arm, dragging him down into the darkness. Blind, his nose full of river, choking, sinking, he kicked and twisted and fought to pry the clutching fingers off his arm, but the fingers were unyielding. Air bubbled from his lips. The world was black and growing blacker. He could not breathe.

 _There are worse ways to die than drowning_. And if truth be told, he had perished long ago, back in King's Landing. It was only his revenant who remained, the small vengeful ghost who throttled Shae and put a crossbow bolt through the great Lord Tywin's bowels. No man would mourn the thing he had become.

 _I'll haunt the Seven Kingdoms_ , he thought, sinking deeper. _They would not love me living, so let them dread me dead._

Warm hands found his clothes…his face. Soft arms held him close and Tyrion realized with the last of his foggy consciousness that he should have prayed to the Seven…and especially her… the Maid…all along.

 _Take me away, love_. Thoughts of King's Landing left him. _Take me far from this life._


	13. XIII: A Dead Man

…

XIII.

A Dead Man

 **A** lyce scrambled, panicked, over the hold roof toward Tyrion, Young Griff, and the stone man as Griff shoved his way through the narrow side deck below. She had dropped her torch in order to move faster. As she threw herself down and onto the aft deck, she watched, horrified and running toward them, as Tyrion threw his weight into the creature to protect the boy, and they both went falling over the side.

She heard a cry fly from her lips. Griff was calling instructions, but was deaf to it as she began to rip off her boots, her sword and knife belt, and her clothes, memorizing landmarks on the shore nearest he had fallen in. Griff reached the prince and wrenched him behind him away from the edge.

The current was taking them past, but Alyce knew where she needed to go. She could feel Yandry and Duck attempting to stop the boat's movement with their poles. Fear and cold sent tremors shivering through her, but there was no thought of grayscale, no thought of failing.

 _I will protect you._

She bent her knees and launched herself with a great burst that sent the boat rocking as she dove into the cold black water. She swam like an arrow to the spot he had fallen in and heaved a deep breath. She dove down deep, clawing at the water. She knew she had already lost time and needed to find him quickly. She went deeper.

She moved with the current, searching deep. Finally, her fingertips brushed a boot and found a leg, soft hair, a warm face. She pulled. A stone man moved with her. Snarling internally, her legs around Tyrion in the water, Alyce drew the small knife strapped to the inside of her arm. With it, she viciously pried the stone hands loose from Tyrion as her lungs began to feel tight. They came free, and she kicked them toward the surface.

When they broke, Alyce heaved a much-needed breath and kicked hard to keep them above. She let go of her knife; it didn't matter. As she swam toward the nearest rocky shore, she held Tyrion's limp mouth to hers and breathed into it, trying to hold his nose closed. She struggled mightily; Tyrion was terribly heavy.

She struggled onto a stony bar and laid him down on his back. His lips were blue. Panic surged through her, but she kept her movements controlled and purposeful. She breathed into him and pushed on his chest with her hands. She needed to force the water out. She pushed hard, knowing alive with broken ribs was better than dead without.

Water trickled from his mouth. Alyce closed her mouth around his cold one and blew into it despite the trickling water. The dwarf choked feebly. Alyce turned him on his side, getting more water out. Again she breathed into him. Again he choked, harder this time. A rasping breath came. Alyce felt tears prick her eyes and she let out a shaky exhale thick with relief. He did not open his eyes, but he was breathing steadily now. Alyce closed her eyes and kissed him on the forehead.

"Bloody bastard…" she exhaled. "Thank the gods." She kissed him again on his forehead, then she picked him up and entered the cold black water again to swim them laboriously to the boat, his heavy head on her shoulder. Duck and Yandry had stopped the boat along the misty shore. Griff knelt over the side to haul Tyrion onto the deck so that she could climb on herself.

As Yandry and Ysilla worked to get them moving again, Alyce lay Tyrion down on the deck. Something smelled strongly of vinegar.

"Lad, fetch her a blanket," Griff instructed. Alyce glanced at him gratefully. She was very cold and almost naked.

"I got him breathing again," she told Lemore in a raspy voice. She coughed once. "But he hasn't woken." Lemore and Haldon both checked him. As they did so, Young Griff came back with a quilt and wrapped it around her as she knelt by Tyrion. She gave him a quick, strained smile.

"Mother Rhyone claimed him," Yandry muttered darkly to them. "We ought to give him back."

Alyce and Young Griff both whirled to glare at him.

"We _aren't_ throwing him back," the boy declared heatedly. "He _saved_ me."

Yandry took one look at Alyce's murderous expression and retreated to the tiller.

"There's nothing more we can do," Lemore told Alyce gently after she checked Tyrion's breathing and heartbeat. "But you both need to wash—with vinegar—as the boy has."

"Vinegar?" Alyce looked blankly at her.

"Some say it helps prevent the greyscale," Haldon explained. "I am inclined to doubt that, but there is no harm in trying." Lemore handed her a heavy cloth and pointed to a barrel of vinegar. Alyce sighed and pulled off the quilt. Shivering, she scrubbed herself with the awful-smelling liquid and poured it over her head. She scrubbed aggressively under her fingernails and between her toes. Both she and Lemore set to scrubbing Tyrion as well. Alyce stripped him down to his undershorts and scrubbed his face, hair, hands, and feet as Lemore saw to his arms and chest. Alyce rubbed to circulate his blood to warm him as well as to scrub.

Young Griff stared surreptitiously at her body as she worked. Finally, a bit irritated, she asked Haldon to bring her her clothes. She pulled her pants and outer shirt on as Lemore scrubbed Tyrion's legs. She wrapped the quilt around herself again.

The rest of that day was a cycle of washing and drying. Alyce noticed that Ysilla and Yandry avoided her and Tyrion as if they carried the plague. It saddened her, but could not be helped.

They were clear of the fog of the Sorrows within about an hour and a half, but even after, she scrubbed the deck, herself, Tyrion, and washed the blankets they had used in vinegar. They hung the quilts to dry and used uncontaminated ones when they themselves had dried.

Alyce took to the vinegar remedy with the vigor of a convert, because she dearly wanted to believe it had the power to stymie the disease. Now that Tyrion was out of danger, she had begun to think about what she had done and its repercussions, and the idea that she could have just caught greyscale tormented the edge of her mind. She touched her thumbnail to each of the ends of her fingers in turn, feeling with trepidation for any numbness. _I wonder what Varys will say when he learns this little task of mine has forced me into the infected, thrice-cursed waters of the Sorrows. Would I have agreed if I had known?_ She noticed Griff never washed with the vinegar, though a stone man had gotten his hands on him in the beginning of the fight. Perhaps he did not believe it had any power over the spread.

The weather was fair, so they kept Tyrion on the deck, covered to his chin in a blanket. Alyce watched over him, making sure he stayed warm, and occasionally trickling some water into his mouth. Young Griff tried to engage her in bow practice, but she would not be distracted.

Once that day those on deck glimpsed Dothraki riders moving south along the river's eastern shore. Alyce knew that much closer, they would be able to hear the bells tinkling in their braids. Griff was woken and told, and he came on deck to see himself. A warship passed them before nightfall as well; a Volantene river galley crammed with slave soldiers.

"The triarchs fear an attack?" Alyce asked Griff as they watched the galley pass, arms crossed.

"Aye," Griff grunted. "Selhorys, which we will reach in a few days, is on the eastern bank and vulnerable. Most of its sister towns lie across the river."

"Should we worry?"

Griff frowned. "We should be able to pass through before anything happens. There does not seem to be an urgency to these galleys."

All their spirits lifted when they had begun to pass cheery villages and orchards on the western bank, and they tied up before dark at a small pier at one such for the evening.

"We have enough coin for some hot baths if any should wish it," Griff told them as they secured the boat. Lemore and Haldon immediately volunteered to be some of the first in the baths and Ysilla left the boat to go buy a few fresh supplies for them. When they had all left, Griff came up to Alyce who sat in a chair beside Tyrion.

"I'll watch him while you bathe," he offered.

Truly, a bath sounded wonderful. Alyce glanced longingly at the warm lights of the village.

"I'm going below to put some fresh dye in the boy's hair," he told her. "In half an hour when the others come back, you and Duck can go."

Alyce nodded. "Alright."

They bathed in careful shifts, always keeping at least two swords on the boat with the prince. Once he learned he would not be allowed to go ashore like the others, the boy's mood turned sullen and angry. The rest, including Alyce, carefully avoided pricking his wrath.

On her way back, Alyce bought herself a hearty meal of battered fish and fresh vegetables where she bathed and so she returned to the boat clean and full. When she boarded, she immediately checked Tyrion for any change and trickled some water in his mouth. Lemore was humming a tune and Young Griff pulled up a chair and engaged Alyce in a little storytelling. Haldon also added a story or two.

That night, they could see the light of the Dothraki's fires beyond the hills.

Alyce curled in a quilt on her sleeping mats beside Tyrion on deck. Griff also remained near, hulking over the brazier on his usual nighty guard duty.

She thought about how close she had come to failing. How close she had come to failing Varys…to losing Tyrion. She closed her eyes. Her fear had not been about failing Varys. When the stone man had rushed him, when he had fallen into the black water…she had only feared his death. Losing his thoughts, his japes, the possibility of his smiles. _He has become my companion_. His mind was a puzzle, and beneath his ugliness he was…

She glanced again at his face, reminding herself of _what_ he was.

A dwarf. Also a lord. Uncle to a king. A betrayer and kinslayer…

 _It felt so good to hold him to me. For him to be mine for just a little while_. She wanted to hold him now, but Griff was close by. Alyce closed her eyes again.

 _I care about him as a friend—a companion. He is important to me, but not… I know the man I truly want is not this man. It is someone strong, tall, who can lift me into his arms as he lays me in bed to make love to me._ She thought about all the men she had wanted and the men she had lain with. _Those are the kind of men I want…_

 _But only until they grow irritating or predictable._

She glanced at Tyrion again. _You have not grown so, but… You interest me only because you are clever and difficult to figure out. That is all. Once I understand you, I will no longer want you._

She rolled over and tried to sleep.

…

Tyrion woke with his mouth dry and rusty with the taste of blood and his heart hammering in his chest.

"Our dead dwarf has returned to us," Haldon said.

 _The Sorrows. I was lost in the Sorrows._

Alyce's face hovered above his for a moment before she pulled him up, wordlessly, into her arms. The gesture was unexpected. Tyrion was stiff with surprise for a moment, but then he lifted his arms about her as well and felt his bones grow soft. Her warmth and her arms triggered something in his mind. _It was not the Maid I felt that came to pull me out of the cold and black, but her._

"Tyrion," she murmured.

The warmth and feeling in her voice made something inside him tremble. Heat bloomed in his chest, spreading like hot blood. He wanted to press against her and stay in that embrace. He fisted her shirt in his hand and closed his eyes. _Alyce_.

She was holding him tightly to her chest, his head against her neck, one of her strong arms tight around his middle. Being held tight within her arms made his stomach weightless, as if he were falling from a height. He tried to master himself.

She loosened the embrace as if to say something to him, but was interrupted by Haldon.

"We've left the Sorrows well behind us," he announced. Tyrion glanced up at him. To Duck who was standing nearby, the Halfmaester said, "Duck, be a fine fowl and boil some broth for our little friend here. He must be famished."

"Why do I stink of vinegar?" he asked him in a hoarse voice, frowning.

"Lemore and Alyce have been washing you with it. Some say it prevents the greyscale. No harm in trying. It was Alyce who forced the water from your lungs after she pulled you up. You were cold as ice and your lips were blue. Yandry said we ought to throw you back, but the lad forbade it."

 _The prince_. Memory came rushing back: the stone man reaching out with cracked grey hands, the blood seeping from his knuckles. _He was heavy as a boulder, pulling me under_. "You brought me up?"

Alyce nodded and gave him a thin smile. "Who would we have to caper and amuse us if you were lost to the Rhyone? Mummer's dwarves aren't exactly plentiful out here."

She spoke lightly, but he saw the emotions half-hidden beneath it. He had grown to know her blue king's eyes. Tyrion put a hand over hers. Immediately her dry smile melted away to be replaced by a gaze of genuine concern and tenderness. Tyrion could not look away.

"Here," said Haldon, producing a knife from his sleeve. He tossed it underhand and Tyrion glanced and flinched when it landed beside him and stood quivering in the deck. He plucked it out. "What's this?"

"Take off your boots. Prick each of your toes and fingers."

"That sounds…painful."

"I hope so. Do it."

Alyce shifted away and Tyrion yanked off one boot and then the other, peeled down his hose, squinted at his toes. It seemed to him they looked to better or worse than usual. Alyce watched him with trepidation in her eyes. He poked gingerly at one big toe.

"Harder," urged Haldon Halfmaester.

"Do you want me to draw blood?"

"If need be."

"I'll have scab on every toe."

"The purpose of the exercise is not to count your toes. I want to see you wince. So long as the prick hurts, you are safe. It is only when you cannot feel the blade that you will have cause to fear."

Tyrion grimaced. He stabbed another toe, cursed as a bead of blood welled up around the knife point. "That hurt. Are you happy?"

"Dancing with joy."

"Your feet smell worse than mine, Yollo." Duck had a cup of broth. "Griff warned you not to lay hands upon the stone men."

"Aye, but he forgot to warn the stone men not to lay their hands upon _me_."

"As you prick, look for patches of dead skin, for nails beginning to turn black," said Haldon. "If you see such signs, do not hesitate. Better lose a toe than a foot. Better to lose an arm then spend your days wailing on the Bridge of Dream." Tyrion felt Alyce shiver slightly beside him. _She leapt in after me. She is in as much danger of greyscale as I am._

"Now the other foot, if you please," Haldon said. He looked at Alyce. "Have you been checking often?"

"I have." Her right thumb ran back and forth along the tips of her fingers on her right hand almost unconsciously. Haldon nodded.

"Shall I prick my prick as well?" Tyrion asked dryly.

"It would not hurt."

"It would not hurt _you_ is what you mean." Tyrion drove the dagger's point into the ball of his thumb, watched the blood bead up, sucked it away. "How long must I continue to torture myself? When will be certain that I'm clean?"

"Truly?" said the Halfmaester. "Never. You swallowed half the river. You may be going grey even now, turning to stone from the inside out, starting with your heart and lungs. If so, pricking your toes and bathing in vinegar will not save you. When you're done, come have some broth."

Alyce's arm had curled around her middle. Tyrion continued pricking his extremities. When he was done, she asked him, "Any numbness?"

"None. You?"

"No. Not yet."

"Let us hope not ever." He groaned standing up and even though it was a bit of a pointless gesture, offered a hand to Alyce. She took it and stood without pulling on it. Tyrion walked to the small wooden table beside the brazier where Duck had placed his broth. It was good, though he noted that the Halfmaester kept the table between them as he ate. Alyce had moved off to the railing to watch the village. The _Shy Maid_ was moored to a weathered pier on the west bank of the Rhoyne. Shops, stalls, and houses stood against a sandstone wall and the streets were cobbled and lit by warm lamplight. A few small domes were visible beyond, burnished by the light of the evening sun.

Lemore appeared on deck with the prince in tow. When she saw Tyrion, she rushed across the deck to hug him. "The Mother is merciful. We have prayed for you, Hugor."

 _Some of you, at least_. "I won't hold that against you."

Young Griff's greeting was less effusive. The princeling was in a sullen mood, angry that he had been forced to remain on the boat instead of going ashore with Yandry and Ysilla.

"We only want to keep you safe," Lemore told him. "These are unsettled times."

Haldon explained about the Dothraki sightings, the passing war galleys, and their approach on Selhorys to Tyrion.

 _Selhorys is a small prize_ , thought Tyrion. _If I were khal, I would feint at Selhorys, let the Volantenes rush to defend it, then swing south and ride hard for Volantis itself._

"I know how to use a sword," Young Griff was insisting.

"Even the bravest of your forebears kept his Kingsgaurd close about him in times of peril." Lemore had changed out of her septa's robes into garb more befitting the wife or daughter of a prosperous merchant. Tyrion watched her closely. He had sniffed out the truth behind the dyed blue hair of Griff and Young Griff easily enough, as well as Alyce's varying deceits. Yandry and Ysilla seemed to be no more than they claimed to be, whilst Duck was somewhat less. Lemore, though… _Who is she, really? Why is she here? Not for gold, I'd judge. What is the prince to her? Was she ever a true septa?_

Haldon took note of her change of garb as well. "What are we to make of this sudden loss of faith? I preferred you in your septa's robes, Lemore."

"I prefer her naked," said Tyrion. He smirked—then glanced at Alyce who was watching the conversation with no expression. He realized he felt guilty for making that jape in front of her.

Lemore shot him a reproachful look. "That is because you have a wicked soul. Septa's robes scream of Westeros and might draw unwelcome eyes on us." She turned back to Prince Aegon. "You are not the only one who must needs hide."

The lad was not appeased. _The perfect prince but still half a boy for all that, with little and less experience of the world and all its woes._

"No one will be able to see I can take care of myself until you let me _prove_ that I can! It's only a little village!"

Tyrion saw Alyce roll her eyes. She turned toward the prince and walked close to him, obviously now weary of his petulance. She exerted her sway over him with just a few words.

"No one here doubts your skill with your sword," she told him gently, eyes tender and guileless. _Gods but she is an actress._ "We do not ask you to stay because we doubt that—we are overprotective because we care so deeply about you. It is silly, but please give us your patience and indulgence. I know you have the strength to wait just a little while before you prove yourself. I know you can be the kind of leader who knows when to have patience." She smiled a little again, gently. "I see it in you. Why, this is only the beginning of all that you will do."

She had stroked his ego, given him the control he wanted, while at the same time convincing him to stop whining. _Cersei could take lessons_.

Aegon nodded, melted and compliant as a kitten. He smiled a little. "Well, I… I'll stay if it will make you feel better."

"Thank you. It _is_ difficult only being able to be in this boat. You handle the confinement much better than I do." She flashed him another smile. "And _certainly_ better than Hugor. He jumped into the Sorrows just for a change of pace." Her quip made the boy laugh and entirely forget his sour mood.

 _That was deftly done. With just a few words she did what even Griff or Lemore could not. Does she realize the extent of her sway over the boy? She has a prince in her pocket._

Alyce watched the evening gold deepen over the village, standing near the railing again. Tyrion's eyes were drawn to her. With her arms crossed, her hard muscles stood out to either side formidably. Her hair, usually tied up in a bun in the top back of her head with twine, was down and looked freshly washed. It wafted in the southern breeze, a waterfall of thick raven black brushing her breasts and back. Her eyes ignored the movement of the hair around her face. Blue as the sky over the ocean, they were narrowed shrewdly.

She could be incredibly still when she chose—perhaps when she was thinking. And she was a practiced student at keeping her features carefully expressionless. Tyrion had caught only a few unguarded emotions and reactions on her face.

He wanted to know what she was thinking of. But he had no privacy for grateful words. Haldon and the boy remained on deck.

He shivered. The evening was not very cold, but it seemed the cold of the Sorrows had settled somewhere in his chest. He needed only to close his eyes to see the oozing knuckles, the black of the rushing Rhoyne.

When the boy went below, Alyce did exercises—more than usual. She might not have been fully lying about being restless aboard this boat. But then he caught sight of her shiver and put an arm around her waist and realized he was not the only person aboard who felt the cold of the Sorrows still. _She exercises to warm her blood._

The sight of her backside in her pants while she was doing exercises was distracting. It was too easy for him to picture her naked. Wanting to leave her company and clear his mind, Tyrion went into Haldon's cabin and used a table to write out more about dragons.

But his mind did not long stay on his task. He could vaguely hear Prince Aegon and Alyce talking over something on the stern deck of the boat—even the cool bark of Haldon's laughter. It bothered him more than it ought.

 _I've never owed my life to a woman before. I have owed it to many… Bronn, Podrick, Jaime, Varys… Alyce is different._ She was quiet generally, but the things she said were always concise and clever. _She dove into the Sorrows after me. Chanced a slow, truly horrible death just to take me from the black._

 _But she is a gifted actress. I have seen so. And she was sent from King's Landing. From the start, she always paid over-close attention to me. Perhaps she is a snake. Lovely and deadly, waiting in the wings to strike._

But if Varys wanted him dead, he could have let him hang for Joffrey's murder. If Illyrio wanted him dead, he could immediately have had it done with.

His thoughts spun in a circle. _Damned woman. I am done with women_ , he reminded himself.

The world through Haldon's one yellow window grew truly dark and Tyrion shivered even by the warm candlelight. _Bed. Bed for me._

He lit a candle in the store room and huddled up under a thin quilt. Alyce came in not long after, carrying another quilt. She set it by her bed. Tyrion felt a shiver escape through his teeth. Alyce stilled and looked at him. When she did not lower her eyes, Tyrion rolled onto his back to ignore her. Alyce took up her best fur, the once she usually lay on, and stood, bringing it over.

"Don't give that to me," he growled. "You keep it."

"We'll share," she told him softly. "Maybe that way neither of us will shiver." She lay down close and pulled him onto his side and against her. She hauled the fur over his quilt and over both of them.

Tyrion did not argue. The comfort and warmth of another body—of _her_ —felt too good to push away. He gazed at her neck, so close to his face, and then closed his eyes, feeling her arm tighten around him. His blood pulsed in his ears and his heart thumped hard against the ceiling of his ribs. His skin began to hum with electricity. She had no perfume on, but still she smelled good. The salty-sweet smell of her sweat, the light feminine musk of her skin. That smell and the feel of her warmth against him caused him to grow hard. If she noticed, she said nothing.

He felt her thumb rub her fingertips near his belly. Her anxiety which that compulsive motion betrayed made him feel terribly guilty. He looked down at her hand and then moved slightly back to look at her, his head across from hers on the folded blanket he was using for a pillow.

"You should not have gone in after me."

Alyce's face hardened and her voice took on a chill. "I do not want to have braved the Sorrows for a man who does not feel grateful for it. Don't say that to me again."

"I am grateful for it."

Alyce looked unconvinced. "By now, you would have drunk yourself to death out of that wine barrel if Griff had let you."

"That is not true." He spoke low. "I am grateful for my life. I merely wish it had not had to be you."

"It would only have been me."

 _That is true enough._ "If you have been… If your future has been ruined because of me…"

"It's not your fault," she murmured. "You were protecting the boy."

"What I am trying to tell you is that I do not believe my life—what's left of it—is worth risking any part of yours."

Alyce gazed at him, his sincerity and abrupt admission surprising her. "I _do_ , Tyrion."

"You shouldn't," he sighed wearily. "I do not know why you would. Listen to me. I am…I am less than I was. Only a mock of what I tried…" The words would not come to him. Though usually so glib, his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. _The truth is heavy. That is why I never tell it anymore. It goes heavy off the tongue._

She cocked her head very slightly, her soft blue king's eyes seeing and understanding more than he thought her capable of. "You have only lost purpose," she told him softly. "You have striven toward certain goals your entire life… They have been taken from you. You have lashed out and killed like a dog wounded so many times he finally takes a stand. That is where you are. From here, you start again."

 _There is nothing left._ He gave her an empty smile. "As you say."

Her lips twitched, annoyed with his insincerity. "Are you so weak that you don't have it in you to find a new direction? The world has shit on you since you were born. Haven't you learned to take it? To not let it change you?"

"Apparently not." His voice was cold.

Alyce let go of her irritation. She moved her arm from around him and turned his chin with gentle fingers until his eyes met hers. "I did not save a dead man. I knew that when I dove in and I know that now. I went in after you, Tyrion, because I know you have not lost the man you were."

He jerked his head away but could not find a steely reply to snap at her. He wanted the comfort of her arms too much to push her away with words. He terribly wanted her this close. _Only she could cause me to forget my resolves. Only this woman. But only for tonight._

Alyce gently pulled him close. Tyrion felt his bones melting as she did so. The rush of warmth and comfort he felt being held by her was intoxicating. Surrounded by her, old wounds and poisonous new ones fell away. She filled his senses and made him feel as if he were living. As if everything that had come before might not matter. The feeling was so soothing it careened him into sleep like a body dropped down a deep well.


	14. XIV: Failure

…

XIV.

Failure

 **A** lyce hugged warmth to her. She opened her eyes sleepily and realized Tyrion was lying in her arms. She took a slow breath and nuzzled her jaw into his hair. He still smelled like vinegar though she could smell the scent of his skin beneath. A warm tenderness bloomed in her blood which truly surprised her. _I care too much about this half a lord. I should not have become so entangled. I was only to play a part. To be a shield._

But she did not regret it. Her emotions had not been touched like this in more than two years.

It was his mind.

She valued him because he fascinated her. Some instinct in her wanted to soothe his wounds—to draw him out. To gain his trust and respect. To protect the mind hiding bitterly in his skull. She nuzzled his head gently again with her mouth.

He shifted slightly and she realized he was awake. Perhaps he already had been. She loosened her embrace and shifted slightly back and down in order to look at him. He met her eyes. His mismatched eyes looked the same as they had that first day in Illyrio's garden. Soft…affectionate… When he looked this way she could see the man he truly was, not the droll monster he embodied. She felt a small smile loosen her face, and she pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes.

The moment was more intimate than she had expected. Tyrion's inhale was a little unsteady and his mouth opened slightly, his lips parting. Alyce closed her eyes and moved her head very slightly, shifting the touch of their foreheads. Mind to mind. Perhaps that was why it felt more intimate. She checked herself before showing any more affection, however, and moved away from him.

His eyes opened again. They were so soft, and slightly dazed and glassy. It that moment he looked so tender and vulnerable that she could see why he usually draped himself in the armor of cold japes. He would have been so easy to bite into in that moment—so easy to wound. A sliver of pride warmed her body. This man's tenderness was buried deep, but even just for this moment, it was hers.

She had not expected the rush of protectiveness, but it crashed upon her bones like a wave. The impulse to gather him into her arms and shower kisses on his scarred skin almost took possession of her. If anyone threatened to harm him, she would tear into them like a wolf maw-deep in flesh. Her hand rose of its own accord to touch his face, and he saw it, his eyes softening even further, but she slowly lowered it.

"Did you sleep alright?" she asked him. Her voice was a little hoarse.

He nodded and finally his gaze dropped away from hers. "Yes. Thank you."

Her wits were still seemingly asleep. Trying for something to say, she ran her thumb over the tips of her fingers. "Are you still… Are your fingers still alright?"

"They don't feel any different." He felt his fingertips as if rubbing a coin in them.

They could hear other passengers on deck. Nodding, she sat up. He followed.

At her side of the store room, Alyce changed her socks and her outer shirts and then got on her boots and belts. She ran a comb through her hair a couple times.

Tyrion sniffed his arm and winced. "Bloody vinegar. I need a bath."

"You could take one in the river before we set off," she told him. The _Shy Maid_ was not on its way just yet. "Or wait until we tie up in another village for the night and have a real one there."

"Did Griff let you go into the village?"

"Yes. For a bath and supper."

"I don't know how keen I am to swim in our Mother Rhoyne again," he grumbled.

"Turtles are nothing compared to stone men."

Grumbling, Tyrion stripped to his undershorts, wound a scratchy towel around himself, soap in hand, and Griff let them stall launching for a few minutes so he could bathe.

Alyce followed him to the stern of the boat. He dropped his towel and moved swiftly down off the side so that he was hanging there, holding onto the deck. Then he let go and splashed a bit slipping into the water. He came up, spluttering and paddling and making an ugly grimace.

"Fuck this river."

Alyce chuckled and leaned over to hand him some soap. He scrubbed with a vengeance, grimacing like a gargoyle, and holding onto the side of the boat for support at times.

"Still have a taste for the Rhoyne, eh?" Haldon japed, coming around the side of the hold. "I wouldn't have thought."

Alyce and Tyrion shared a quick, irritated glance, and ignored him. Not getting the rise he expected, the almost-maester stalked away.

Alyce helped Tyrion back up onto the deck. His mouth was cut into a grim line and his discomfort showing her his stunted body was obvious in his jerky, uncomfortable movements and how quickly he had the towel around himself. There had been none of that discomfort when she had first met him and he had bathed in front of her in his room in Illyrio's manse.

He went down below to change, and Alyce remained on deck to help Duck, Yandry, and Aegon untie them and push them on their way. Ysilla and Yandry both avoided her, and when breakfast was made Alyce was not allowed to help cook. Once she even saw Ysilla making a swift, subtle sign to ward off evil toward her with three fingers.

When Tyrion joined them on deck, Ysilla stopped flipping fish fillets on the skillet over the brazier to stare at him. Her eyes narrowed and she very obviously made the same warding motion. Tyrion eyed her, walking toward Alyce.

"Do you need any help?" he asked Ysilla.

"No," she snapped. "Stay away. Touch no food besides the food you eat yourself."

He raised both hands. "As you command." He joined Alyce who was helping Aegon unfurl their sail. The day was sunny and clear with a breeze and the light sparkled and danced on the river. Alyce and Tyrion ate what the others left them of the fish and biscuits on the skillet. As they flowed with the current, another galley passed them, headed in the same direction and loaded with soldiers. Tyrion watched it go with narrowed eyes.

Alyce fetched a book and lay out on a mat in the sun with it. Tyrion sat in a chair near her, watching the river and the cheery orchards and vineyards they passed on the western bank. Once in a while he would ask her about what she was reading.

Duck did not let Aegon spar with him that day, knowing the noise might attract undo attention from the docks they passed, but he did ask Alyce for her bow and gave archery instructions to the boy. Duck knew enough about it to be a passably capable teacher, though it was obvious that the boy was disappointed it was not _her_ teaching him. Alyce unconcernedly ignored his glances. Often, she answered his questions without even looking up from her book.

Eventually, however, she was obliged to get up and help him fine-tune his form. By this time, his practicing had left a number of divots in the wood of the outer hold walls to Yandry's chagrin. Alyce dipped her finger in some leftover bacon grease, smeared a rough circle on the wood of the hold to the right of the entrance, and came back over to instruct him.

Within an hour, the boy was shooting almost every third shot on or very near her circle. Alyce told him to move back to the prow and now practice from that distance. After half an hour, his arm was tired, and she asked him to go sharpen her arrows for her before he put them away. Dutifully, Aegon jogged down into the hold to sharpen them on Duck's whetstone.

Later, Alyce was humming softly as she watched the river. It was not her usual song, and Tyrion smirked, knowing the tune.

" _Meggett was a Merry Maid_."

" _A Merry Maid Was She_." She smiled, turning her head to him.

He returned the smile. "A fine song."

"I don't know it." Prince Aegon frowned.

"Do you know any Westerosi songs?" Alyce asked him.

"I don't think so."

"You must know _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_."

His expression was blank.

"Well, we must teach you," Tyrion declared. "Duck can help." Ser Rolly grinned. He, Tyrion, and Alyce heartily broke into the well-loved drinking ballad of the Seven Kingdoms.

" _A bear there was, a bear, a bear,_ _  
_ _All black and brown and covered with hair!_ _  
_ _'Oh come,' they said, 'oh come to the fair!'_ _  
_ _'The fair?' said he, 'But I'm a bear,_ _  
_ _All black and brown and covered in hair!'_ _  
_ _Down the road from here to there,_ _  
_ _From here, to there,_ _  
_ _Three boys, a goat, and a dancing bear._ _  
_ _They danced and spun_ _  
_ _All the way to the fair!_

 _Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair,_ _  
_ _The maid with honey in her hair, her hair,_ _  
_ _The maid with honey in her hair._ _  
_ _The bear smelled the scent on the summer air,_ _  
_ _The bear, the bear,_ _  
_ _All black and brown and covered with hair,_ _  
_ _He smelled the scent on the summer air._ _  
_ _He sniffed and roared and smelled it there,_ _  
_ _Honey on the summer air._ _  
_ _'Oh I'm a maid and I'm pure and fair,_ _  
_ _I'll never dance with a hairy bear,_ _  
_ _A bear, a bear,_ _  
_ _I'll never dance with a hairy bear!'_

 _The bear, the bear, lifted her high into the air,_ _  
_ _'I called for a knight, but you're a bear,_ _  
_ _A bear, a bear,_ _  
_ _All black and brown and covered in hair!'_ _  
_ _She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair,_ _  
_ _But he licked the honey from her hair,_ _  
_ _Her hair, her hair,_ _  
_ _He licked the honey from her hair._ _  
_ _Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air,_ _  
_ _She sang: 'My bear so fair!'_ _  
_ _And off they went_ _  
_ _The bear, the bear_ _  
_ _And the maiden fair!"_

Aegon was laughing as they finished, and even Septa Lemore was chuckling from the chair she had taken up in the shade of the cabin. "What hair did he lick?" Aegon asked, sniggering. "Where was the honey?"

"That's not for you to know," Duck laughed, mussing the boy's hair and shoving him affectionately. The boy sniggered again. Duck and the boy brought poles from the storage room about as long as longswords and sparred with them slowly, practicing technique and footwork. This captivated Alyce's attention, and she put her book down to watch them.

In Haldon's study that day, Alyce, Tyrion, and Aegon solved logical puzzles. Alyce enjoyed the exercise, though it was a bit trying because the lad was younger and less used to the kind of thinking it took to solve riddles and puzzles. He would become sour when he announced what he thought had to be the correct answer and it was not.

Once again the boy was not allowed ashore when they docked for the night at a large village but he made the effort to concede this with grace as Alyce had convinced him to do. She gave him a winning smile that further reinforced the more mature behavior. Griff came out on deck as they tied up and he surveyed the town with narrow hawk's eyes. Apparently it was to his satisfaction.

"We'll reach Selhorys by tomorrow afternoon," Yandry told him. Griff nodded brusquely.

"Good. The quicker the better."

It always was with him.

"Look how accurate I'm getting with Alyce's bow," Aegon crowed to him, showing him the grease circle and the little holes in it in the cabin's wood. Griff glanced at them and one corner of his lip twitched upwards in a smile.

"It's good of her to teach you. What did you learn from Haldon today?"

"Nothing. We just solved riddles and word puzzles."

"You're exercising your mind with those. That isn't nothing." He turned to Haldon. "Anything new with the Dothraki?"

Haldon shrugged. "We see riders every so often on the east side, but nothing out of the usual. Likely there will be news in Selhorys of what is going on. Qavo will likely have answers to our questions."

Griff nodded.

Tyrion sat himself against a spoke of the rail with Alyce's book, and when Alyce had finished helping moor their boat, she sat down close beside him.

"You can have your book back."

"No, it's alright, I'm not after it." She glanced at him and their eyes met. _Our eyes have met more today than any day before. We are closer than we were._ She was glad for that. _He trusts me._

She slipped a knife out of her belt and handed it to him. Huffing in annoyance, Tyrion poked at his fingertips. He could feel every poke just fine. He pulled off his boots and hose and poked at the stubby ends of his toes. He was more careful here, as his toes were less sensitive than his fingertips, but it still seemed to him that he could feel the knife tip fine.

"Do you need to check?"

"No, I did a couple hours ago."

He glanced at her.

"Stop feeling guilty," she snapped.

"Well, if you contract it, make sure I do as well, and we shall rule the Palace of Love together until we both go mad."

Alyce smirked. She loved his quips. "What about the Shrouded Lord?"

"We'll toss him into the Rhoyne and take his throne."

"We'd need a second throne if we're both to rule."

"No we wouldn't. I would sit on your lap, of course."

Alyce sniggered.

"And then it would not just be the greyscale making me hard as a—"

"Stop," she interrupted, sniggering uncontrollably while trying to contain it. Tyrion was smirking.

"You'd make a good Shrouded Lord," she said, trying to straighten her face.

"I'd make a _terrible_ one. Dressed in shrouds, I'd likely be mistaken for a large mushroom. Perhaps if I sat on your shoulders and we found a very large robe…"

Alyce was shaking with mirth again, imaging it. _Life-long exile would not be so horrible if he were there to make light of it always._ She caught his eyes and smiled. Not the false smiles she gave the boy, but one of genuine amusement and fondness. It caused his eyes to soften.

"Is your shivering gone?" she asked him.

"It is." His mouth twitched. "Thank you."

"Mine was helped as much as yours."

Tyrion half-hoped to find her on his bedding mat under the fur when he finally grew tired that night and ventured into the storeroom. She was on her own mat, however, curled on her side on the fur and fast asleep. He stood by his bedding and stood watching her sleep by the faint candlelight for a time, her song in his head.

 _How can, how can you ask me again?  
It only brings me sorrow.  
The same thing I want from you today  
I would want again tomorrow._

His joints ached. He walked stiffly over to the candle to blow it out. He massaged his joints on his bed mat, curled under his quilt that still smelled faintly of vinegar, and of her, and thought about Alyce sleeping across the room. To ease himself to sleep, he imagined her crawling on top of him and pressing her hips against his. He imagined kissing her—how her lips might taste and feel. What would it be like to love a woman like her? Muscular, clever, skilled… He wondered if she had skills other than with weapons…

…

" _M'lord?" a woman's voice called._

 _The first step was the hardest. When he reached the bed Tyrion pulled the draperies aside and there she was, turning toward him with a sleepy smile on her face. It died when she saw him. She pulled the blankets up to her chin, as if that would protect her._

" _Were you expecting someone taller, sweetling?"_

 _Big wet tears filled her eyes. "I never meant those things I said, the queen made me. Please. Your father frightens me so." She sat up, letting the blanket slide down into her lap. Beneath it she was naked, but for the chain about her throat. A chain of linked gold hands, each holding the next._

" _My lady Shae," Tyrion said softly. "All the time I sat in the black cell waiting to die, I kept remembering how beautiful you were. In silk or roughspun or nothing at all…"_

" _M'lord will be back soon. You should go, or…did you come to take me away?"_

" _Did you ever like it?" He cupped her cheek, remembering all the times he had done this before. All the times he'd slid his hands around her waist, squeezed her small firm breasts, stroked her short dark hair, touched her lips, her cheeks, her ears. All the times he had opened her with a finger to probe her secret sweetness and make her moan. "Did you ever like my touch?"_

" _More than anything," she said, "my giant of Lannister."_

 _Tyrion slid a hand under his father's chain, and twisted. The links tightened, digging into her neck._ For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman's hands are warm. _He gave the cold hands another twist and the warm ones beat away his tears._

Tyrion Lannister woke suddenly with the searing string of deep betrayal like acid in his chest. He remembered the cold malice, the deadening. Apathy. Surrender. The bitter, wiser remnants of what he had been before.

He closed his eyes tightly, clenching his fists, and turned over on his sleeping mat to curl into a ball of stone.

 _Fool. You are a fool. No woman has ever been able to love you. Not your mother-who-never-was, who you ripped open upon entering this thrice-cursed world. Not your arrogant whore of a sister who never bothered herself to know you at all. Not Tysha, whose affection and innocence were destroyed… Not Sansa, your false, forced, fool of a lady wife. Not Shae, who you fell for so stupidly…blinded by your starving hope that a woman that beautiful could reciprocate your devotion… And not Alyce, just as lovely and thrice as clever, who can be no different._

She might pretend at gentleness, at attachment, but he would not allow himself to be the pitiful fool again.

Had not the world proven to him by now that women could not love him? He had spent his life honing his mind—the only thing he had—hoping… But they would never see past their own disgust. They would see him as they expected to, and any woman who acted otherwise was concealing the truth of what she felt. Any woman who acted otherwise would betray him.

 _I am done with women._

His sudden and complete coldness toward her from that morning onward threw Alyce in a visible way. He did not feel regret or sympathy. _You almost had me, you lovely dagger blade. You dangle hope in front of me again, but this time I will not bite. Take your feigned gentleness and fuck yourself with it._

 _I am done._

She cornered him in the storeroom after the group's midday meal. She fisted his mottled shirt in a hand and pushed him against the wood of the wall, squatting in front of him.

"What's up your _arse_?" she hissed. She took up one of his hands and peered at his fingernails. "Did you find some black on—?"

" _Leave me be,_ " Tyrion snarled at her. She dropped his hand in surprise. "I won't have one of Varys' hatchlings whispering to me from his mouth all the way across the Narrow. I won't be toyed with." He forcefully shoved out from against the walk and left the room.

They arrived at Selhorys by late afternoon and moored at a weather-beaten pier astride it on the east bank of the Rhoyne. Two piers down, a Volantene river galley was discharging soldiers. From Westeros' standards, Selhorys would be a city. Shops, stalls, and storehouses sat beneath a sandstone wall. The towers and domes of the city were visible beyond it. Yandry and Ysilla left the boat for provisions, though no one else left.

Tyrion spent much of the day in Haldon's room playing at _cyvasse_ with Prince Aegon. Alyce attempted to distract herself by reading or talking with Lemore, but mostly she wanted to fume alone in the storeroom.

 _Stupid bastard. Too stupid to realize I'm the only one here actually out to keep him safe._

He wasn't a fool, though. That was the problem.

 _Why the change? Did Griff tell him something to make him suddenly suspicious? He wants to trust me. I saw it in him in the last two days. He's no longer letting himself._

 _All there is is to prove to him given time that I am not out to hurt him. Stupid, prickly sod…_ She threw her book aside, fuming. _'Varys' hatchling…'_

The towers and domes of the city were reddened by the light of the setting sun by the time Yandry and Ysilla returned to the _Shy Maid_. A porter trotted at their heels, pushing a wheelbarrow heaped high with provisions: salt and flour, fresh-churned butter, slabs of bacon wrapped in linen, sacks of oranges, apples, and pears. Yandry had a cask on one shoulder, while Ysilla had slung a pike over hers. The fish was as large as Tyrion.

He and Aegon heard the return and appeared from the hold as they were unloading the food from the gangplank onto the boat. Tyrion avoided Alyce's eyes. She was not allowed near the food and hung back, as did Tyrion on the opposite side of the deck. Aegon moved forward to help.

Yandry thumped the water cask down onto the deck. "Where's Griff?" he demanded of Haldon.

"Asleep."

"Then rouse him. We have tidings he'd best hear. The queen's name is on every tongue in Selhorys. They say she still sits in Meereen, sore beset. If the talk in the markets can be believed, Old Volantis will soon join the war against her."

Haldon pursed his lips. "The gossip of fishmongers is not to be relied on. Still, I suppose Griff will want to know. You know how he is." The Halfmaester went below.

She never started for the west? Alyce supposed she must have had good reasons.

By the time Griff appeared on deck, the pike was sizzling and spitting over the brazier whilst Ysilla hovered over it with a lemon, squeezing. Griff wore his mail and wolfskin cloak, soft leather gloves, dark woolen breaches. He took Yandry back to the tiller where they spoke in low voices.

Finally, Griff beckoned to Haldon. "We need to know the truth of these rumors. Go ashore and learn what you can. Qavo will know, if you can find him. Try the Riverman and the Painted Turtle. You know his other places."

"Aye. I'll take the dwarf as well. Four ears can hear more than two, and you know how Qavo is about his _cyvasse_."

"As you wish. Be back before the sun comes up. If for any reason you're delayed, make your way to the Golden Company."

 _The Golden Company?_

Griff had said nothing about Alyce accompanying Haldon and Tyrion, though he knew she was sworn to shield Tyrion. She scowled. _I will have to sneak off and follow them. Tedious._

Haldon donned a hooded cloak, and Tyrion shed his homemade motley for something drab and grey. Griff allowed them each a purse of silver from Illyrio's chests. "To loosen tongues."

Dusk was giving way to darkness as they made their way along the riverfront. Under a cloak of dark grey herself, Alyce watched until they were almost out of sight up the riverfront before she jogged doggedly off the gangplank and onto the pier. Griff barked something angry after her, but she knew he would not leave the boat in pursuit or risk sending any of his swords after her and away from the prince.

She walked with swift strides past some deserted ships docked along the front and some crawling with armed men who eyed her. Under the town walls, parchment lanterns had been lit above the stalls, throwing pools of colored light upon the cobbled path. There was a low murmur of foreign tongues all around and strange music was playing from somewhere up ahead, a thin high fluting accompanied by some drums. She darted in and out of sight in the long shadows, tailing the two men, one tall, one short. A dog was barking somewhere to her left. Whores lined a few of the streets, their slave tears dark beneath one eye.

A guard motioned Haldon and Tyrion impatiently through the city's river gate guarded by a squad of Volantene spearmen. Slave soldiers, proud of their tiger stripes. Alyce approached the gate well after they had passed through, and was also waved through amidst a couple leery looks from the soldiers. She had kept her cloak covering her legs and the edge of her scabbard.

A great square opened before her and she had to keep a sharp eye to keep track of her quarry, because even at this hour, the square was crowded and noisy. It was ablaze with lanterns of colored glass that swung from iron chains above the doors of inns and pleasure houses. To her right, a nightfire burned outside a temple of red stone. A priest in scarlet robes stood on the temple balcony, haranguing the small crowd that had gathered around the flames. Travelers sat playing _cyvasse_ in front of an inn; drunken soldiers wandered in and out of a brothel; a woman beat a mule outside a stable. A two-wheeled cart rumbled past, pulled by a white dwarf elephant. The square was dominated by a white marble statue of a headless man in impossibly ornate armor astride a war horse.

Haldon and Tyrion stopped to listen to the priest for a few minutes. Alyce hung back. Even if she had drawn close enough to hear, she would not have been able to understand the priest anyway. Finally, Haldon lead Tyrion past the headless statue to where a big stone inn fronted the square. The ringed shell of some immense turtle hung above its doors, painted in many colors. Tyrion and Haldon entered, and when they did not come back out, Alyce sat herself sat herself down on a stone bench for a long wait. With one eye on the inn, she also watched the noisy goings-on in the square. She watched a man lose to a woman at _cyvasse_ , and then move his chair over to kiss her lustily. She watched the street flutists for a while, who bobbed gratefully at every penny tossed their way. Dogs yipped from the back of the inn. The colored lamps made the whole square look like a mummer's show.

When it had been ten or fifteen minutes, and Alyce felt sure they were staying to talk with someone, perhaps over a meal, she settled in for a long wait. Once in a while she would get up to check on the goings on in the inn through a window. All looked calm, and she could see Haldon's cloak and one of Tyrion's legs.

She was watching the red priest's crowd when a willowy young woman in a dark blue dress sat down close beside her. Too close. Alyce gazed at her coolly and cool eyes gazed back. Braavosi eyes. _She is far from home. And wants something._

"You are perfectly on schedule," the woman told her lightly in a rich, thick accent. "Give or take a few days." She smelled of leather and chocolate. _Rich scents as well_. Her dress was not particularly expensive, though she wore it well, so she had recently been in a place of wealth… Not working, however. The nails on her fingers were painted.

"Are you here to chirp at me?"

"He said you would ask that." Her head cocked slightly and she smiled. Alyce relaxed. She was in Varys' employ.

"What else did he say?"

The Braavosi's smile was lovely and white. Her dark eyes danced. "He said if you didn't believe me I was to say a word to you. Teecira."

" _Tichira_ ," she corrected her.

"Yes. And that you would be the most beautiful woman in the town."

"Perhaps when _you_ leave it."

The woman smirked at the compliment. "I am checking on you," she told her. "Our merchant likes his packages delivered safely."

 _A merchant now. Is there anything Varys_ _isn't_? _Or perhaps it is Illyrio she is referring to._

"We're leaving Selhorys on the morrow and continuing," Alyce informed her. "Barring trouble, we should arrive very soon."

The Braavosi nodded, pleased. Alyce spied the subtle wrinkles and slight curves of foreign weapons hidden on her person. The woman had studs and small rings pierced all up her right ear, slightly less so on the left. Her hair was thick, was almost down to her waist, and flowed about her like water when she moved. Her skin was a deep copper brown and she had a tattoo wrapping around her arm above her elbow. Alyce liked the sinuous way she moved and the mischievous glint to her green-brown eyes. She generally found men more sexually appealing than women, but this woman was one of the occasional exceptions. _If I were in a position to stay the night, love, I would make you mine._

"I hope we meet again," the woman said, standing gracefully.

"Perhaps it'll be me checking on you next time."

The woman winked and then turned and went her own way.

It was a great deal of time before Tyrion or Haldon Halfmaester reappeared. Alyce had begun to pace from shadowed corner to busy crowd, but the crowds thinned the later the night grew. The red priest had disappeared, and many of the lamps had been blown out, but the candles in the brothel windows still glowed warmly. In the quieted darkness, laughter from those windows could more easily be heard. Faked laughter, at least on the women's side. Alyce could hear the difference.

Finally, Tyrion and Haldon left the inn and stood in the square talking about something. Alyce squinted, cloaked in shadow. She could not make out their voices but saw a few words on their lips. _Much and more…men…Yollo…fingers…wait for you…_ To her surprise, Haldon turned and headed toward the river gate while Tyrion turned toward…the brothel.

Alyce snarled internally. _Seven hells_. She thought briefly of just leaving him instead of bearing the degradation of having to wait for him to finish sating himself in some Rhoynish wench.

 _I swore to Varys. I am his shield._

Her eyes narrowed to angry slits, she peered in a window and saw Tyrion shaking his purse toward the manager of the place. He was led into another room. _Will he be safe in there or must I go in?_ She imaged he knew his way around a whorehouse. _I thought he said he was done with pretty women?_ She knew there would be wine in there as well. _If I have to carry him home while he smells like some whore's cunt, I'll throw him back to the Rhoyne myself._

She could not help but feel the sting of rejection, doubled by the wounding of her pride. _I pulled his drowned dwarf arse out of the Sorrows and he wants to bed with someone else. A stranger._ It cut her more sharply than expected, but she closed herself to it. She was used to hardening herself and she had a duty to Varys.

She stood outside the brothel in shadow, growing cold. _Finish your business and come back to the boat._ She was tired from going without sleep all night. Dawn would be in just a couple hours.

There was a vague commotion from the main level of the brothel. Curious, Alyce peered in the dirty window. From what she could see, Tyrion had just tumbled down the stairs. He looked drunk but unhurt, surrounded by women and the proprietor. Alyce turned away and slipped back into shadow. She did not want to be caught snooping by him.

But only a few moments later she heard the unmistakable sound of steel drawing against leather. Without even glancing in the window, she flung herself into the room with a bang of the door, drawing her sword.

A man from the Seven Kingdoms stood facing Tyrion beside a row of pegs at the wall, his longsword drawn. The proprietor had disappeared. Whores watched them avidly, candlelight shining in their eyes. The man was massive. Burly, broad-shouldered, hairy, wearing a wool surcoat in this heat like a madman.

Like a knight.

"Get behind me, Hugor," Alyce commanded.

"No you don't." The knight lunged toward Tyrion with a hand to grab him. But he was forced to reel back and defend himself with his sword when he saw Alyce's thrusting toward him. Their steel met crashing upward and down with a fierce ringing. A few of the whores shrieked. Those who were near exits fled.

" _Get behind me_!" Alyce snarled at Tyrion again. He stumbled out from under their ringing duel and behind her. Alyce's insides were steel and venom, but the narrow room was far too confining to be able to employ her usual tricks. She did not draw her knife and hold it in her another hand as she usually fought. She needed both hands for her sword because the knight's blows were terribly heavy. The man was strong, fierce, and infuriatingly fast for his age—which must have been going on forty. His longsword against her shortsword meant he had reach on her as well.

Alyce could feel licks of trepidation in her chest. _I don't have the space to best him in here._ "Go back to our friends!" she yelled to Tyrion. "Go for the door! _Now_!"

"I'm not leaving you," he said. His voice was low, but intense, and she still heard it clearly.

 _Gods be good. Perhaps he_ is _in love with me_ , she thought in shock. _How fucking inconvenient at the moment._

She sashayed left and right but could not slip about because she had to block Tyrion from the knight. She was trapped, a cat in a cage with a furious bear. In other instances, she could run from him, leap out and back in and tire him out, slip around and attack less protected areas of his body. A slice here, a slice there, a crunch, a well-aimed cut. But in a cage, blunt force and larger size would win out. As if he knew her thoughts, the knight began to beat down on her weapon, grunting with each blow.

"Hugor," she called, breathing heavily, "If you care about me, _get outside!_ "

Tyrion stood, indecisive, concern for her etched deeply into his bleary face.

 _He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand the way I fight. He's seen me win against men this big before._

She was almost on her knees now.

"Leave her alive and I'll come sweetly!" he shouted to the knight from behind her.

The man responded by increasing the furor of his attack. It was all Alyce could to now to hold him at bay. In the corner of her left eye she saw Tyrion try to dart in front of her to do what he could for her. But she would not allow him place himself between her and danger while she lived.

She tripped him and shoved him backwards with her boot. " _You run out that door and I'll live_ ," she snarled. "I'll follow you—"

But her action had opened her up as she had known it would, and her words were cut short as the knight jabbed his sword forward to thrust. Alyce cringed and recoiled to evade it as best she could. The blade sliced thinly but long across her upper right arm, leaving a blazing trail of pain and a pulsing streak of a wound that began sending blood flying as she wrenched herself and her sword up to defend herself and rise again. Staying low meant death.

Tyrion finally seemed to understand. He turned and made for the door. But the knight would not have that, and strength was leaving Alyce's sword arm with every rapid pound of her heart that sent blood pulsing from her wound.

She evaded the knight's attempt to kick her legs out from under her, but he forced his way around to her right, separating her and Tyrion.

"NO!" She hurled a candleholder at him; he barely flinched at what must have been a painful impact on his chest. She went for a rather desperate series of attacks—all that she had left in her arsenal. But her sword arm was slow. Her brain's calculations were too quick for it to follow. That had never happened before.

She jerked aside to avoid a killing thrust only to find his elbow coming at her neck. The blow stunned her throat—stopped air from coming in. Her limbs folded like bedfittings and the floor rushed up to her. She could not breathe.

Tyrion had run forward, his face contorted, desperate, his eyes on hers. She did not look away from him. His darker eye was too dark to read, but there was desperation and concern for her and only her in his green one. But the knight kicked him, sending him flying onto his back. His head hit the left wall with a horrid thump. His eyes fluttered closed.

 _Tyrion_.

She watched from the floor as the air deprivation held hostage her ability to move or to think about anything other than the taste of panic. The knight's boots came toward her. They looked like they were climbing up a wall. The world was sideways and full of white spots. Her vision was leaving her.

 _Death is simply nothing. I was never afraid of the dark and am not afraid of nothingness._

With a heaving gasp, her throat remembered how to open again. She tasted blood and the air stung.

The hilt of the knight's sword came downward toward her face and all was nothing.

…

The story will resume with _And of Such Follies, Part II: Another Day to Live or Die._

.


	15. I: All Follies

.

 _Author's Note to Readers:_

I will not be able to include in writing all of Tyrion's travels with Jorah and Penny the dwarf featured in _A Dance with Dragons_. I only include certain sections and write this assuming you are familiar with their story.

With love,

L&P

…

 **AND OF SUCH FOLLIES**

 **Part II: Another Day to Live or Die**

…

 _Like the alchemists of old  
I've tried to spin my straw to gold  
Most times a giver, sometimes a thief  
So full of hope but prone to grief  
And between freedom and despair  
I know the truth is lying there_

 _Some days we fall, some days we fly  
In the end we all must die  
Our rotten flesh and broken bones  
Will feed the ground that we call home_

 _A new sprout grows from a fallen tree  
This song will go on after me  
So lift your heart and dry your eyes  
It's another day to live or die_

-'Another Day,' Tim O'Brien

…

I.

All Follies

 **T** o her left between breaks in the trees, the impossibly wide River Rhoyne sparkled like a hundred thousand diamonds in the sunlight.

Alyce's leg muscles burned furiously with pain from holding herself up in the stirrups as her rouncy cantered down wide stretches of good path and trotted through more difficult trails. The day was hot, though mercifully not humid. Beads of sweat permanently hung along her temples and above her upper lip. Lines of moisture itched as they ran down the back of her head under her greasy hair.

Though it had been the helper on their way down from Ghoyan Drohe, the river was now her enemy. She was trying to make up for lost time by riding hard—faster than the river's current—both day and night.

She needed answers.

She had woken on the brothel floor in the afternoon of that dark early morning Tyrion had been taken by the knight with the bear on his surcoat. Her throat had ached, deeply and brutally, and blazed with pain when she swallowed. A nasty green-yellow bruise marked where the knight's elbow had struck her, and another bruise was swollen under the hair on the top right of her head. Her sword arm had been bound tightly; bands of cloth over a bitter green ointment over a thin, stitched vertical cut from her elbow to her shoulder. Much deeper and the blood loss would have done her in. It still would have if the slave whores had been the only ones to try to tend her. She owed the stitches and the binding to the Braavosi woman. One of Varys' or Illyrio's beauties or assassins or investments—whatever she was.

"If I had been with you he would not be alive now, this bear knight," she had said through her teeth and thick accent after Alyce had awoken and taken stock of herself. "One of these girls had sense enough to look for a healer as you lay bleeding. I was staying with her, the healer. It was the stars. It was lucky. But it was not lucky enough."

Alyce had sat up by then, her thoughts racing ahead of her like whipping arrows. The Braavosi had continued, watching her and crouching beside her on the floor. "It took time to sew you up and in that time they have been lost."

"I might still catch up if I can learn how and where they are traveling," Alyce said, speaking quickly. _I have lost precious time. I must hurry_. "I'll check the piers—someone must know him—"

The Braavosi was shaking her head. "I thought the same. I have checked the piers and spoken with the captains. Your friends on the poleboat are gone—left this sunrise without delay. Some captains knew of the knight, but did not know his name or purpose, and none knew of him and a dwarf leaving this town by the river. It is possible he journeyed north or south to depart or simply was able to slip away from these piers without notice."

 _Do I trust her?_ Alyce gave her a hard gaze. _Varys gave her my word._ Tichira _. I trust him above all. And my instincts tell me she is trying to help._ _But if what she says is true, I have no leads and so many options. Too many_.

Her thoughts flew, categorized, followed themselves through. She made a grim face.

"The knight was Westerosi," Alyce murmured quickly. "One of the bears of those islands in the north above the Neck. It is most likely that he is returning the dwarf to Westeros for a prize. It is unlikely he knew the dwarf would be here. It is likely just chance. But these are more 'likelys' than I like." She returned her gaze to the other woman. "Have you asked the whores what they learned about him?"

"Yes. The knight never gave his name to anyone but asked for a very specific-looking woman. Long silver-blonde hair, Westerosi face."

Alyce frowned. _A silver-blonde Westerosi? Pining for a lost love?_ "Was he surprised when he saw Tyrion or was he lying in wait?"

"He had been relaxed. Had a little wine."

"Surprised, then." _He recognized him and made a decision—but_ _what decision_? "Is there anything else the whores said?"

"That he was not much for talking."

Alyce made a noise of annoyance. _People are so unobservant._ _You can learn so much about a person by observation. I could have used that knowledge._ She stood and checked her knives, sword, and other personal belongings quickly. _I wish I had my pack._ There was a mug of water on the floor and she picked it up and gulped it, grimacing at the pain of swallowing. After she wiped her mouth she told the other woman, "If they are off to Westeros, I have failed and it must be up to others to protect him. I would not be able to catch them and have little power at court besides." Her fingers flexed. "But if for whatever reason they are not sailing west… I need to know. Is there no one in this town who would know the knight? What he cared about, where his allegiances lie?"

"I know of none. I am sorry. You Westerosi are rare as trainable cats this far east."

 _There is me. And there is…_ She blinked quickly. _Griff. There is Griff. A Westerosi knight who would know this man and could guess at what he was after. Could I catch them now?_

"One of my companions would know him," she murmured. "If I could catch up with him. If I cannot…and if I can find no trail to follow…I would have to find my way all the way back to Pentos to find my answers."

She and Braavosi shared a knowing look. Illyrio.

"My instinct would be to try to find their trail from here or the surrounding areas," the woman told her, shrugging slightly. "But if this companion might give you the right direction, then ride hard after them."

Alyce had already reached that conclusion. "I will need to steal a horse."

"No need. You have gracious friends." She placed a purse of silver in Alyce's hand. Enough to buy seven horses. "Well, one gracious friend with a gracious employer who will reimburse her generousness." She flashed a smile.

Alyce had wasted no more time. She had taken the woman's face in her hands, kissed her soundly on mouth in thanks, and then had bought a swift horse for the river road.

Impatient as she was, she took the time to warm the horse first, from brisk walk to trot for a time, before finally pushing him into a canter. Running a horse immediately when long distances were expected of the animal was only for fools.

Sleeping in only two or three hour stretches when she had to, she had ridden for two days. When her horse wearied, she stopped in a town long enough to purchase a fresh one.

Dothraki riders were a true danger, but she purchased dried food in the towns she stopped in and it was warm enough to never need a fire, so she did not attract them, and she had been lucky enough not to run into a scouting party during the day on her way. She knew if one rider happened upon her, she stood a chance, but a party of three or four Dothraki warriors would likely make easy work of capturing her and her horse and dragging her back to the _khalasar_ to be any or every man's mount. Her only recourse then would be to plunge her horse into the Rhoyne and attempt a crossing. It would be dangerous, but she could swim on even if her steed drowned, and the riders would not bother themselves to cross after one woman, so it she had a much greater chance giving her fate to the river.

She stuck very close to the bank, always scanning the waters, and when she found a town, she investigated the piers. She had not yet caught sight of them. Luckily the river was not quite yet wide enough to be unable to see to the other side, and she could see all boats traveling in the center current. Most were big galleys or shipping barges that she ignored. A couple times a smaller boat would raise her hopes, but it always ended up being a fishing cog or an unfamiliar poleboat. She could not escape the swooping, nagging sensation of traveling farther away from Tyrion with each mile. _He is likely on a ship to his sister the Queen Regent, with each wave bringing him closer to growing shorter by a head_. The thought made her blood pulse hard and steam with heat in her veins, but there was nothing for it.

 _I failed._

 _I failed in the brothel that night. I should have just gone for the door. The knight likely would not have killed him right there. I could have fought him when he had come out. If I had only thought things through before plunging in. Or if I could only have played a strategic hand and let him have the dwarf in order to get us outside._

She had thought too well of her own abilities. _Next time I will be clever. I will become a shield he can trust._ Tyrion Lannister had been in danger too many times under her watch. _I am a poor shield. Varys thought too well of me. I was always getting him out after the fact. I should see danger before it has him. I should have quicker instincts and a stronger sword. Now, because of me, he is out in the world with no one. He could be dead tomorrow or any day. Every day he could be dead by nightfall._

The thought gripped her heart like a mailed fist. _He should not be lost to the world. He…_

 _It would be such a loss._

…

" _Alyce_."

Her name was the first thing to spring from Tyrion's lips when his eyes opened. He squirmed ferociously against the ropes that bound him where he lay lashed to a saddle like a sack of grain. He squinted through the pain at the back of his head. " _You! Mormont! Did you kill her?!_ "

 _She was down, she was cut, and for me. If she is dead for me— Alyce—_

"Keep quiet."

Tyrion only raised his voice ferociously. "DID YOU KILL HER?!"

" _Seven hells_!" Mormont roared. "I didn't kill her. But if she meant so much to a Lannister, I should have."

Relief swept through Tyrion's body; he almost trembled with it. _Gods be good… When I saw her fall, cut…bleeding…_

"Though I doubt she lived," the knight muttered, and Tyrion grew rigid again. "She was bleeding all over the place with only whores to see to her. Unless there was a maester hiding in one of those little rooms, she bled out in half an hour."

The feeling in Tyrion's body drained away, leaving him like water through a sieve. His husk cared about nothing—had nothing. Not even limbs. He stared down at the passing ground without seeing it.

 _This world is a jape. My life and hers and his…all follies._

 _I am responsible. For Tysha…for Alyce. She was there to try to protect me even when I thought I was alone. Now she is gone from the world because of me. I scorned her kindness and I killed her._

He felt black inside, like tar.

 _Always the monster._

 _Always._

"She was kind and clever," he finally said in a strangled voice. "She was only trying to protect me."

The big man in the saddle was silent.

 _But if I had the stars from the darkest night,  
And the diamonds from the deepest ocean,  
I'd forsake them all for your sweet kiss,  
For that's all I wish to be owning._

…


	16. II: Seizing a Direction

…

II.

Seizing a Direction

 **T** he morning warmed early, even before the sun broke over the eastern horizon.

Alyce had slept for four hours at the end of the previous night and had been riding a few hours as the coming dawn lit the sky from deep blue, to light blue, to orange. The air smelled of the river, and its current against the shore was a constant noise in her ears.

A town about half the size of Selhorys lay in her path along the east bank. She entered it though her horse was not weary yet and she had enough food for the day. She needed to check the docks.

The town was still sleeping for the most part. Only a few fishermen and other shopkeepers were awake early enough to see her ride up the riverbank and onto the pier deck. A few stray dogs yipped and raced playfully in front of her mount's hooves. Their little nails clicked noisily on the wooden boards as a sliver of the morning sun crested behind her, lighting the world with fresh orange and pink.

Alyce reined up suddenly. _The gods are good._

The _Shy Maid_ floated, hugging a pier as its namesake would hug a bedpost on her wedding night. She was a sweet, sweet sight.

Alyce swung off her horse, gathered her few things, and abandoned the animal immediately. It would be found in little time by the townspeople and tended to. A smile stretched her lips for the first time in three days when she saw movement on the deck. She was glad to be able to be with these people again—to explain herself for her disappearance. Alyce jogged down the pier and Prince Aegon gave a shout when he saw her coming. She jumped down into the boat.

"We were attacked by a knight," she told him before he could demand what had happened to her. "Tyrion was taken. I need to speak with Griff about it."

"He won't head back for the dwarf," Duck told her frankly.

"I don't expect him to. I need to ask him about the knight. Then I will go after them myself."

Lemore reached them, her long hair still damp from her morning swim, and she gave Alyce a hug. "We didn't know what had befallen you! Griff thought you had deserted us! I'm so glad you're alright!"

Aegon looked as if he would have liked to hug her. She turned to him and ruffled his blue hair playfully. "It's good to see you again," she said.

Then he could not help but hug her.

"I was worried for you," he whispered into her ear as they embraced. They stood apart and his brows drew together in gallant ire as he looked her over. "What happened to your arm—and your neck? Did the knight do it? Tell me his name so if I ever come upon him I will know to kill him."

"I don't know his name." She frowned, and her worry and frustration showed. "I must ask Griff. Will you go wake him?"

Aegon nodded and disappeared into the hold.

Haldon came out onto the deck, hearing the reunion, and Alyce gave him a murderous scowl.

"You should not have left him by himself," she accused him immediately in a cold, hard voice. Haldon's mouth thinned and his features took on a pinched look.

"It is not my duty to look after the dwarf. As I hear it, it is yours."

"People are hunting for his head all over the known world, and you leave him alone in a major port?!" Her exhausted leg muscles trembled under her. Controlled anger radiated from her skin. "You disliked him from the _beginning_ and your _fucking apathy_ might have cost him his _life_."

"It wasn't much of a life."

She made to jump him with a shout of rage, but Ser Rolly had his hands on her, holding her back like a vice. Her fists curled tight as she screamed, " _You_ _conceited_ _son of a_ _wine-soaked whore_ — _!_ "

" _Quiet_!" Griff commanded, voice ringing. "Alyce, I will speak to you below."

Ser Rolly's arms loosened and she shoved them from around her. Breathing hard, she kept herself from making another lunge for Haldon, her body shaking. She shouldered furiously past Lemore and after Griff.

"This is why women make poor shields," Haldon muttered behind her.

Alyce thrust her hand out for a log of wood set aside for the brazier and lobbed it hard at Haldon's stomach. He doubled over with an acute " _Uff!"_ and a string of curses.

She ducked down into the dark hold. _That excuse for a maester will keep out of my way unless he wants to be gelded._

The noises from the deck were abruptly muffled when she closed the door to Griff's hold behind her. She took a slow breath to calm herself and walked forward to sit in the chair near his desk. The exile lord was dressed in only an undershirt and pants; he looked tired and drawn after a night of sitting guard.

The moment she sat down, he demanded, "What happened?"

She leaned forward and spoke quickly. "I followed Tyrion and Haldon at a distance. When they were done in the inn, Tyrion went into the brothel and Haldon left and I waited for him to come out and make sure no harm came to him on his way back. But already in the brothel was a knight. I heard him draw and I ran in. I—we fought." She swallowed, keeping her face impassive. "I lost. I thought the knight would kill me, but chivalry won out, and he only knocked me unconscious. He had disappeared with Tyrion when I woke. There was no blood but my own—so I do not think the knight killed him—but there was also no trail at the docks. No one knew his name or where he was going. They didn't leave by ship, at least not from that pier. I… It is most likely they are on their way back to Westeros for the lordship the Queen Regent has promised for Tyrion's head."

Griff opened his mouth, but Alyce continued quickly, "—But it is not for certain yet, and I am hoping you might know the knight by description. If he is one of King Tommen's, then all that is left is for me to try and find their trail and sail back to Westeros and Lord Varys, having—having failed."

Griff's mouth was grim but he looked almost sympathetic. _This man knows what it is to fail._

"Tell me what you know of him," Griff told her, leaning back in his chair. "Every detail."

"He is a broad, strong, hairy man of middling height," she reeled off, "around forty years, a strong swordsman, and a knight of Bear Island I know from the bear on his surcoat, unless it was stolen." Griff's eyebrows had flashed up in recognition at that, but he said nothing while he allowed Alyce to continue her description. "According to whores, he is not talkative, but apparently prefers a very specific woman in his bed—a silver-blonde of Westerosi features. He knew Tyrion on sight which means he has been to court. He obviously feels he has much to gain from some party by bringing him somewhere or to someone. That is all I have been able to glean."

"Your knight is Ser Jorah Mormot, exile Lord of Bear Island and former guard and confidant of Queen Daenerys."

"Wh— _Daenerys_?"

Griff nodded brusquely. "He was with Daenerys since her wedding to that Dothraki _khal_. He was one of her most trusted companions. When she found out he had shared information about her to King Robert at the beginning of his time with her, she banished him from her service."

Alyce narrowed her eyes in slight confusion. "He was informing against her… Yet he was close to her for well over a year and finds her likeness to bed in a whorehouse."

Griff's eyebrows twitched upwards again in surprise. "Her likeness? The whore?"

"Is it fact he was plotting against her with Robert?" she questioned, interrupting him. Her mind was already jumping ahead. "Do you know what he said in his defense?"

"I don't know what he said, but it is certain that at least in the beginning he was informing on her. He was one of Varys'."

Alyce's eyes flashed to his. "So am I. And it was just a job when it began for me as well, but when you shadow someone long enough they usually grow on you." _The lost love the man was pining for was the Queen Daenerys._ She crossed her arms and sat back. "Tyrion is a Lannister and who are Daenerys' enemies if not the Lannisters?"

"You think Mormont is taking him to the queen."

"He is doing nothing but remaining in the east and lying with women who look like her. He hasn't gone back to the Kingdoms to claim whatever prize he was likely promised for informing on her. That itself tells all. Aye, I think he must want back in her favor, and he must think bringing her a Lannister in chains might buy it." Her eyes flashed. She had her direction.

"Tyrion is not just someone she might be pleased to see dead," Griff added. "You heard what he said—he knows much of the court, his family, King's Landing and the Kingdoms. Illyrio was sending him with us to help the queen. Mormont no doubt also thought his knowledge could valuable to Daenerys if forced out of him."

"What exonerates a secret-seller if not selling her the secrets of the other side?" Alyce stood, thinking quickly. She was exhausted and sore, but the excitement of her new lead had given new energy to her veins. "You are also on your way to the queen, but by Volantis, and last we heard she was sieged in Meereen with no intent to head out." She gave Griff a hard look. "The plan has been ruined by this war these cities are waging against her—you must know this better than I do, who am new to these politics. You mentioned the Golden Company, but they and us with them would be surrounded by enemies if we raised for Daenerys and Aegon."

"I am not discussing my plans with you."

"Fine," Alyce yielded easily, "but answer this: will remaining with you bring me as quickly as possible to Meereen? Mormont is on his way and I must be as well. If you mean to strike another course, I must part with you."

"We are going to Volon Therys where the Company sit. I will speak to friends there and then I will know our course."

Alyce frowned grimly. "With this preparation for war, free companies are being sent to Slaver's Bay by the Yunkiishmen and Myreneese rulers, and it is likely your Golden Company has received handsome offers from one or both already."

Griff was scowling. "There is an old pact. I trust they mean to make good on it."

Alyce did not push him further with her doubts. "I trust your judgment. If you'll allow it, I will accompany you to this deciding. If the decision is to wait or go elsewhere, I will be obliged to part with all of you for Meereen on my own."

Griff's mouth twitched. As irritated as her rather insolent questioning had likely made him, he looked rather fond of her in that moment. "As you will."

"Thank you, my lord." He was a lord, after all.

"Try not to give Haldon a bloody lip."

"What about chucking him into the river?" she muttered darkly under her breath as she closed the door behind her.

That night, Prince Aegon did not wake his foster father right away when the rest of the _Shy Maid's_ company secured the boat for the night and went below. He sat cross-legged next to Alyce on the roof of the hold, contemplating the faint lights of the tiny town they were docked and the darkness of the other side of the great River Rhoyne. Bullfrogs croaked a dull, deep hum, and some sort of insect was making a high, whining thrum. The river water lapped like an old dog at their wide boat.

The air was still hot and sticky, but the coming of evening had cooled it slightly. Clouds passed over the stars slowly, wiping them away and then replacing them.

"He was bookish until he was a teenager," Alyce was telling him about this father. "Has Griff told you that?"

"Yes. He said the story goes that one day my father saw something in a book that made him change. He came out to the yard where the others were training and said, 'Well, it seems I must become a warrior.'"

Alyce smiled and asked him, "What kind of man do you want to become?"

Aegon moved his lower jaw around, gazing off at the darkness in thought. "Like my father, I guess. Everyone says he was a great man."

"What made him so?"

"He was smart…and a skilled knight…and he was poetic. Women liked that about him."

"It's good to want to take after your father," Alyce said gently, "but every person is different, so when we try to be a copy of someone, we can do nothing but fail. What do _you_ want to be remembered for?"

"For killing the people who caused my father's death. For avenging. For winning the throne back." His voice was fierce. _He is so young._

"A good ruler protects and provides for his people once he is on his throne. He is fair and questions everything he is told in order to think for himself and judge a good decision from a poor one."

"Tyrion told me not to trust anyone," he agreed.

"Did he?"

Aegon frowned. "We were playing _cyvasse_ and he told me to trust no one, not even him."

"It is half good advice," Alyce agreed. "If you question what you're told instead of blindly following, people cannot trick you. But if you never trust anyone…you become sour and completely alone. Your grandfather was one such. He went mad with all the suspicion in his belly. If you trust no one, no one can truly love you or be loved by you."

Aegon watched her, thinking on her words. "So I should choose carefully, then. The people that I trust."

"That is how I live. I think it has served me well."

His eyes found hers. "I trust _you_."

"And I happen to wish you only well. But be careful trusting young women so easily, Aegon. Not all of them mean well. Some will try to win you in order to manipulate you. You must be careful with your heart."

"I don't know how," he told her frankly before he leaned over to cup her neck in a hand and kiss her. Alyce let him. The kiss was a sweet one and she wanted to enjoy it, just for the moment. She didn't let herself think about who he was. If she did, she might have been tempted. _I know my place and my heart. This one is too much a boy for me._ _And his deeds will fill singer's songs. There should be no verses in them about someone like me._

He drew back with a starry smile and a questioning quirk to his eyebrows. Alyce stroked a lock of his blue hair in her fingers and touched her hand to his cheek gently. _I must be gentle now._

"Aegon, dearheart, you are meant for someone else. Someone with power and lands and a place in the singers' songs. Not me. You know this."

"I've grown up around—around other girls. But you—"

"—are different, but other women you will find in this wide world will be even more so. Others are stronger and cleverer and sweeter than me. I cannot allow myself to take your heart. It is meant for more." He opened his mouth to argue, but she quieted him with her thumb brushing his cheek. "Listen to me and remember what I say. You must be careful. Yours is a dragon's heart. A king's heart. Many will want to win it. Your heart will be fought over. You must teach yourself to see through false affections to true intents, and you must teach it not to fall easily. A castle that falls easily is not worth the winning. Your heart should be worth the winning."

He gazed at her, part of his expression far away. "They started telling me I was meant for Daenerys from the minute I was told who I was. They never asked what I wanted. I never got a choice."

"You always have a choice. Yet, you should still be open-minded. You and Daenerys have much in common and you can help one another toward both your goals."

"You said you're staying with us until we meet with the Golden Company. Are you leaving then?" He looked melancholic.

"I don't know," she said gently. "It depends on what is decided."

"I don't want you to leave. It wasn't the same with all of us without you and Hugor. Er, Tyrion."

She smiled, touched. "I have a duty. If I did not, I would stay and protect you and Griff. Protecting someone keeps me from getting into trouble back in Westeros." She smirked.

"What is your duty? To protect Tyrion?"

"Aye… I swore to a friend of Illyrio's to do my best to keep him safe. Lately, I have not done very well."

"Do you love him?" he asked her. She was surprised by the question.

"Tyrion?"

"Yes."

"I… I don't know, Aegon. Love is complicated." _Just ask your foster father. He was in love with Rhaegar. I could tell the first time I heard him speak of him._

"I _know_ that it is," he replied moodily, looking away from her back at the black ahead of them. "If it were simple—if it followed the rules people seem to think it should follow—my father would never have taken the Stark woman and died for it, you wouldn't love Tyrion because he's a dwarf, and I would be angry at you for loving someone else. Instead, it's complicated."

Alyce gazed at him. "That was rather wise."

He shrugged in response, melancholic again. "The way you started looking at him started to make me jealous. You looked at him like you were in love with him."

"I am a bit mortified to know my emotions were out for all to see. I thought I had better control of what I presented to the world than that."

"I paid a lot of attention."

They were quiet. Wanting to cheer him, Alyce stroked his hair, and the lines at his brow and eyes smoothed. She leaned her head on his shoulder. The touch was intimate but platonic. She was glad of how well the boy was taking her gentle rejection. Perhaps he had known all along that they were not well matched. He brought an arm up around her.

"When I am done and Tyrion is safe where he needs to be, I should like to come see you again," she told him. "I should like to see the man you will become. To know that man."

His arm tightened around her in response.

"Will you remember me, do you think?" she teased gently.

"Of course I will." He sounded boyishly stubborn.

The future was uncertain. It hung in the impalpable air, amorphous and shrouded. It felt as if they all stood on a threshold, about to be shoved blindly in different directions. Was it fate or chaos that pulled at them?

"We should go in to bed, Aegon. You should wake your father."

They climbed down the ladder and wished each other goodnight quietly before parting for different rooms. Alyce wanted to sleep on the hold roof where the air was fresh and cooler, but she knew she would not be able to sleep for the bugs. Instead she curled up on the fur that still smelled faintly of Tyrion and went to sleep.

…


	17. III: In the Current

…

III.

In the Current

 _ **Y**_ _ou died trying to keep me from harm. I suppose I should try to make it worth something._

On the river there had been wonders to behold and fascinating company. But now that Tyrion Lannister was sailing deeper waters, there was only sea and sky, air and water. Sometimes there was a cloud. _Too much blue._ Enough to envelop him. He needed only to slip off the gunwale of the _Selaesori Qhoran_ and into the waves, and with one small splash, the blight of his life would be over. It scared him, it would have been so easy.

He did not try to get Alyce off of his mind. He drowned in her and his part in her death. _She followed us. She must have. And only showed herself when I was in danger. She was sent to Illyrio from King's Landing. Who in King's Landing wanted me safe so badly? To whom do I matter?_ He could think of no one. _Or was she sent to protect the prince and then took an interest in me? Again…why?_

The wrenching ache in his chest could not be filled with other things or another's company. At times he even spoke to her in his head. But all his rumination did not clear up the mystery of her.

 _I grew to enjoy her company more than any woman. She was always too good to be real. A woman such as her would never care for me. That is why I doubted her. That is why I still do not know what she was._

 _If I had not been drunk, would I have known earlier how to help her? Would I be here?_ Self-loathing stewed in him like acid. He thought of her arms, of pressing close to her, with a savage ache.

 _Alyce…_

 _All my fault._

Tyrion slept badly at the best of times, but since leaving Selhorys it had been far from that. Sleep meant dreams of her falling, of her blood, and of the Sorrows and a stone king with his father's face. Stony hands reached for him out of the fog and there were no warm arms anymore to pull him out again. He lay awake in the cloth bunk listening to the heavy snores beneath him of the man he despised but did not have the strength to kill, or remained above decks to contemplate the sea.

His insides were sick. Of other people, of the weary battle toward the next day, of the pleasures he used to have. _Part of me died with Shae and my father, and another part with Alyce. Hope taken away carves out a bigger hole than it filled. My parts barely hang together, I have been so carved out._

That night, he gave up attempting to find rest in the cabin and made his way up top for a breath of night air. The _Selaesori Qhoran_ had furled her big striped sail for the night, and her decks were all but deserted. One of the mates was on the sterncastle, and amidships Moqorro sat by his brazier, where a few small flames still danced amongst the embers.

Only the brightest stars were visible, all to the west. A dull red glow lit the sky to the northeast, the color of a blood bruise. Tyrion had never seen a bigger moon. Monstrous, swollen, it looked as if it had swallowed the sun and woken with a fever. Its twin, floating on the sea beyond the ship, shimmered red with every wave. "What hour is this?" he asked Moqorro. "That cannot be sunrise unless the east has moved. Why is the sky red?"

"The sky is always red above Valyria, Hugor Hill."

A chill went down his back. "Are we close?"

"Closer than the crew would like. Do you know the stories, in your Sunset Kingdoms?"

"I know some sailors say that any man who lays eyes upon that coast is doomed. So those are fires of the Fourteen Flames we're seeing, reflected on the clouds?"

"Fourteen or fourteen thousand. What man dares count them? It is not wise for mortals to look too deeply at those fires, my friend. Those are the fires of god's own wrath, and no human flame can match them. We are small creatures, men."

"Some smaller than others." _Valyria. An empire built on blood and fire. The Valyrians reaped the seed they had sown._ "Does our captain mean to test the curse?"

"Our captain would prefer to be fifty leagues farther out to sea, well away from that accursed shore, but I have commanded him to steer the shortest course. Others seek Daenerys too."

Tyrion was struck by a sudden sense of foreboding. _Perhaps they should not let me near the silver queen. I am more a monster than I even was when I left King's Landing. I mean to help, but perhaps bring only my curse._

 _This queen of dragons may be safe from me now perhaps. I am only cinders now and wish for only voice, one face. They are lost to me but I have not begun to want them less._

He had not mourned for his nephew, or Shae, or his father. What he felt now…this must be mourning.

Tyrion moved to the railing and gripped it tightly. His knuckles whitened. The red glow on the horizon looked as if the sky were bleeding into the sea. His throat was tight and he swallowed with force.

What could be taken from an empty man?

Nothing.

…

On their journey to Volon Therys, once Alyce had rested and recovered from her hard three-day ride she began to practice dueling with Ser Rolly and Prince Aegon as often as they would be her partners. She ripped some of the stitching in her sword arm twice or thrice, but ignored the pain. _This arm must be stronger for the cut. I will force it to be._

She practiced dueling in enclosed spaces—not allowing herself to step outside a certain section of the boat, dueling with her back against a wall, and practiced the defenses and attacks of hers that she had learned worked best against the heavy Westerosi style. _Westerosi do not move their feet terribly much, but their arms are formidable._

At night before Alyce went to bed, Griff assisted in training her as well. Duck had more brute strength on their captain, but Griff had more finesse. He did not allow them to touch swords and cause the boat to ring with noise, but making the thrusts and motions slowly with precision and control was an excellent workout for her arms and honed her agility. Griff instructed her brusquely in a low voice, without praise, but she soaked in what he had to teach with no complaint or sourness. _He was a Kingsgaurd once. I am learning from the best._

She always thanked him sincerely after these lessons, and came to look forward to dueling him over Duck and the prince.

 _When next I meet this Ser Jorah, I will kill him._

…

"Where in the seven hells is Haldon?" Griff complained. "How long should it take to buy three horses?"

The _Maid_ was tied up in one of the meaner sections of the long, chaotic riverfront, between a listing poleboat that had not left the pier in years and a gaily painted mummer's barge. The mummers were a loud and lively lot, always quoting speeches at each other and drunk more oft than not. The heat of the day sweltered.

"My lord," Lemore began, "wouldn't it be safer to leave the boy here aboard the boat?"

"Safer, yes. Wiser, no. He is a man grown now, and this is the road that he was born to walk." Griff stalked the deck. Alyce watched and listened silently, as impatient as Griff. They did not have time for caution. Things were precarious. The Golden Company was encamped three miles south of town, and Triarch Malaquo had come north with five thousand foot and a thousand horse, cutting them off from the delta road. Daenerys Targaryen remained a world away, and Tyrion…well, if the gods were good, he was heading in the same direction as she, and if they were not…

If they were not, he was already dead.

"We have gone to great lengths to keep Prince Aegon hidden all these years," Lemore reminded him. "The time will come for him to wash his hair and declare himself, I know, but that time is not now. Not to a camp full of sellswords."

"If Harry Strickland means him ill, hiding him on the _Shy Maid_ will not protect him. Aegon is all that could be wanted in a prince. They need to see that, Strickland and the rest. These are his own men."

"His because they're bought and paid for. Ten thousand armed strangers, plus hangers-on and camp followers. All it takes is one to bring us all to ruin. If Hugor's head was worth a lord's honors, how much will Cersei Lannister pay for the rightful heir to the Iron Throne? You do not know these men, my lord. It has been a dozen years since you last rode with the Golden Company, and your old friend is dead. The plan was to reveal Prince Aegon only when we reached Daenerys."

"That was when we believed the girl was coming west. Our dragon queen has burned that path to ash, and thanks to that fat fool in Pentos, we have grasped the she-dragon by the tail and burned our fingers to the bone."

"Illyrio could not have been expected to know that the girl would choose to remain in Slaver's Bay."

"No more than he knew that the Beggar King would die young, or that Khal Drogo would follow him to the grave. Very little of what the fat man has anticipated has come to pass." He grasped the hilt of his longsword with a gloved hand. "I have danced to Illyrio's pipes for years, Lemore. What has it availed me? The prince is a man grown. His time is—"

" _Griff_ ," Yandry called, above the clanging of the mummer bell. "It's Haldon."

The Halfmaster looked hot and bedraggled as he made his way along the waterfront to the foot of the pier. Sweat had left long rings beneath the arms of his light linen robes and he had a sour look on his face. He was leading three horses, however.

"Bring the boy," Griff told the women. "See that he is ready."

"As you say," Lemore answered unhappily. Alyce followed her below. The prince was in his and his father's cabin, polishing his black boots to a high shine.

"We have the horses?" he asked, pushing some freshly dyed blue hair out of his eyes.

"Yes," Alyce answered him. "Now let's make you look a proper prince."

Aegon grinned and donned sword and dagger, his black boots, and they helped him into a black cloak lined with blood-red silk. Around his throat, Alyce clasped three huge rubies on a chain of black iron—a gift from Magister Illyrio. _Red and black. Dragon colors._

They gave the prince the best of the three horses, a big grey gelding so pale he was almost white. Griff and Haldon mounted beside him on lesser mounts. Alyce disliked being left behind, and knew she could fight better than eight Haldon Halfmaesters, but she had not argued with the plan. Aegon was Griff's charge, not hers.

The waiting was long. Alyce did her exercises and then helped Septa Lemore with small tasks of replacing candle wicks and washing clothing. She went into the town for a bath and picked up some fresh vegetables and bread for her, Lemore, and Duck. She offered some to Yandry and Ysilla, but they would not eat food she had touched, despite the fact that she had shown no signs of greyscale. They ate together on deck, and then she and Lemore sat together in Lemore's cabin, reading and talking when there was something to talk of.

In the end, only Haldon returned with three horses in tow. This worried her, but Haldon's face was unconcerned. She fetched Lemore from below as he tied his horse to the pier and stepped into the boat, and she scowled at him while the others gathered around. She had not forgiven him for his part in Tyrion's abduction.

"I'm to take you, Duck, Lemore, and Alyce back to camp, along with the chests and armor," he announced. "Yandry, Ysilla, Griff gives you his gratitude. Your part in this is done. Prince Aegon will not forget you when he comes into his kingdom."

Yandry and Ysilla murmured well wishes and then began readying the boat for travel again. Alyce and Duck helped Haldon hoist the heavy chests onto the backs of their horses. She fetched her pack and lifted it onto her back. Once everything was secure, they started off for the Golden Company's camp, three miles south.

"What was decided?" Alyce asked immediately after they had set off.

"That's not for me to discuss with you."

Alyce snorted with contempt. "Oh, is it not now? If Lemore had asked the same, you prickly little tripe, you would have said." Before he could retort, she added, "But it seems I'll have to wait for someone with some merit to tell me what's been decided."

"You're an ignorant brat."

She laughed derisively. "Perhaps we might find a four year-old you can exchange insults with."

"Alyce, stop." Lemore sounded dismayed. "We all must be kind to each other. The gods have given us all a duty."

"Aye," added Duck. "Haldon, Griff trusts her. And I'd like to know what's going on as well. Are the boy and Griff with the Golden Company? Are we to travel to the queen?"

Haldon pinched his lips. "The road east is war. The prince has suggested we go west instead. Griff will tell you more."

 _West._ Alyce frowned with dismay. _I may be on my own very soon._

They met with Griff again in the tent he and Prince Aegon had been allotted—a large, handsome thing—as the gold and scarlet rays of the setting sun shone through the open flap. Griff—Jon Connington again, now—had shrugged off his wolfskin cloak and pulled off his mail shirt. He looked resigned but somewhat gratified. Alyce was pleased to see it. She followed Haldon into the room, chests in their arms.

"Where is the boy?" Duck asked.

"With Flowers, meeting some men. Though he's to remain Young Griff as far as the company is concerned, until we cross the Narrow Sea."

Alyce directed her burning question at him. "Well?"

"We have decided to leave Queen Daenerys to Meereen. We strike west to raise in the Seven Kingdoms and claim the Iron Throne, with the swords of the Company and those that come flocking to the prince's banner."

Alyce held Griff's eyes as Lemore and Duck gave their comments. The knowledge she would not be going with them pained her more than she had expected. She had grown attached to Griff and Aegon, Lemore and Duck. Even to Yandry and Ysilla, though they no longer ventured near her. She cared about what happened to them.

After he had answered Lemore and Duck's questions and they were all seated in the tent, Griff turned to her. "As it is not our destination, if you still wish to strike for Meereen, you will have to do so alone."

She nodded once. "Yes. What course would you suggest?"

"Ship would be ideal," he told her, "though it would be slowed by taking you well around the Smoking Sea. It will be very difficult to find passage. By land, well, the Company will be able to spare a couple horses and provisions for you, and the demon road runs past Mantarys to Meereen. But the demon road for one traveler alone…"

"—would mean death."

"But there are many people traveling to Meereen right now," he told her. "Those who wish to fight." He walked to her and surveyed her briefly. "Your body will not be easy to conceal, Alyce."

"But not impossible." She had caught his meaning. _I will be a fish in the current surging toward the queen's city._

"Your hair will have to be cut, and soon. Lemore, have you cut hair?"

Lemore was blinking. "I…"

"I will do it—I am more familiar with a knife." He pulled one out as he was speaking. Alyce fingered a lock of her raven-black hair, then leaned forward toward him without trepidation. As Griff began to slice away at her tresses, getting rather close to her scalp, he continued, "Malaquo is recruiting all along these shores. It will not be difficult for you to find employment. Take provisions, as you will likely not be paid until you reach Meereen. Attempts to desert are heavily punished—whippings or hangings—so when you slip away from a camp, do so with as much care and caution as you are able. If they were to learn your true gender…it would not go well for you. Likely they would give you back naked to the men.

"Lemore" —he looked to the septa— "you will teach her how to conceal herself. You know how."

She nodded, pursing her lips. Haldon and Duck left to find some supper and in the meantime Prince Aegon returned. He was wiping the sweat from his face with a towel as he walked in and he stared at Alyce.

"Gods—why is your hair cut?"

"I'm leaving for Meereen as a sellsword."

Griff was finishing the last few cuts. "There," he said, before Aegon could speak again. "Now, you and Lemore take the tent to my left. If you need certain clothes, you can take some from Aegon's or my chests."

"When are you leaving?" Aegon demanded, following them out. Alyce felt her new short hair experimentally. The edges felt stiff and sharp. Her head was very light and her neck felt exposed.

"Tomorrow morning. I'll stay one night for some rest and food and then I have to leave."

"For Meereen."

"Yes, Aegon."

He looked sullen. "Are you sure Hugor isn't being taken back to Westeros? We could take you there."

"I know, and I thank you. But I must head to the queen as Tyrion and the knight who took him are headed."

"It's wrong to leave. Now when everything is starting to happen."

She put a touch of steel in her tone. "It is up to me what I do with my life, not you. I swore to protect Tyrion and must see that oath through."

"What if someone finds you out? What if you get hurt?"

"I've been looking out for myself most of my life and I'm still alive. Griff's idea was a clever one. It will help me."

"And you need to get out of this tent," Lemore told him, "so that I can help her with it."

He looked confused.

"I'm going to be undressing," Alyce told him exasperatedly.

"Oh. Erm. Beg your pardon." He left the tent. Alyce turned to Lemore. The septa clucked in thought as she began to dig through some of her belongings.

"Now," the septa said, "I have had experience concealing breasts and…other things." _Her pregnancy._ "I can show you how to flatten and to wrap yourself…and as for your hips, you are going to have to add padding to your waist."

They spent the better part of two hours sewing additions to three pairs of Alyce's clothing and then they raided Griff and Aegon's chests for other necessary masculine garments that Alyce did not own herself. They had to work by candlelight as the sunset light was fading quickly.

As Lemore showed Alyce how to wrap and flatten her breasts tightly with cloth, Alyce felt closer to the woman than she had before. _She reminds me of my mother._

"Thank you for helping me with this."

"If it'll keep you safe while you're off in the world, I'm glad to be able to do it. The Mother above looks after you, and the Warrior as well. Perhaps especially now." She smiled.

"My mother was a septa," Alyce confided quietly. "She had to hide her pregnancy as well." She was still a septa, of course, but insinuating she was dead protected her.

Lemore looked very surprised, and then smiled wanly. "Ah! I would never have thought. What strings connect us all! It is the work of the Seven. She should be proud to have such a daughter."

 _Such a daughter. Well, I am such a something. I have been most of the faces of her god in one way or another. Maiden, Warrior, Smith, Stranger…Crone when I'm having an ill day…and now perhaps the Father in a way as well. Watch out, High Septon. I have the market almost cornered._

"You should try to find us again after all things are said and done," said Lemore. "We should all like to see you again. I know you dislike Haldon, but you know Duck and the boy and I are fond of you. And even Griff I think is warming to you."

Alyce smiled in thanks, watching her tuck and secure the end of the wrap. Her chest was uncomfortably tight, but she knew she would have to get used to it. "I will try my best. None of us know what is yet in store for us all."

"No," murmured the septa, "that is true."

Alyce turned and rifled through her pack "I have some brown eye shading," she commented absently as she did so. "Illyrio gave it to me." _Varys, rather_. "I could perhaps shade my jaw and upper lip with it every so often. We could see if it is passable."

Lemore hummed a doubting hum. "Well, we can try."

Alyce opened the powder, rubbed a cloth in it, and patted it gently onto her jaw. Not too heavy, but a slight shadow. She brushed some along her upper lip as well, then turned to the septa. "Well?"

Lemore's eyes were appreciative. "From here, that looks convincing. She walked close. "Up very close it is not as so, but a person would have to be very close."

Alyce smiled. "Worth it, I think." She pulled on her boots. "Let's see what Griff thinks."

"So," she said loudly in a deepened voice as she pushed open the tent's flap. Inside all were gathered, talking by candlelight. "Am I an Allerd, an Alyn, or an Allister?"

Prince Aegon broke into guffaws.

"Why're you laughing, lad?" Alyce demanded, keeping up the jape in her deeper voice. "A man is asking an honest question! What in the seven hells is my name?"

Helpless with laughter, Aegon could not reply.

"Alyn," said Duck through a mouthful of mutton and a smile. "You look like a little Alyn to me."

"Alyn will do," Griff agreed, not nearly as amused as everyone else.

"Alyn it is," Alyce announced gruffly. She took up a thick slice of bread that had been brought in by Duck and Haldon and bit into it.

"You did well, Lemore," Griff told the septa who had come in behind. She nodded in acknowledgement. Alyce winked at the prince as he began to get his sniggering under control, and it pushed him over the edge to helpless guffaws again.

…


	18. IV: Deceit of Prophesy

…

IV.

Deceit of Prophesy

 _ **B**_ _lue sky and blue sea, but off west…I have never seen a sky that color._

A thick band of clouds ran along the horizon. "A bar sinister," Tyrion Lannister said to Penny, pointing.

"What does that mean?"

"It means some big bastard is creeping up behind us." He had a bad feeling. "We best get below."

For the better part of three hours they ran before the wind, as the storm grew closer. _Take heed, take heed of the western wind. Take heed of stormy weather…_

The western sky went green, then grey, then black. A wall of dark clouds loomed up behind them, churning like a kettle of milk left on the fire too long. Tyrion and Penny watched from the forecastle, huddled by the figurehead and careful to stay out of the way of captain and crew.

The last storm had been thrilling, a sudden squall that had left him feeling cleansed and refreshed. This one was different right from the first. The captain felt it too. He changed their course to north by northeast to try to get out of the storm's path.

It was a futile effort. This storm was too big. The seas around them grew rougher. The wind began to howl. The _Selaesori Qhoran_ rose and fell as waves smashed against her hull. Behind them lightning stabbed down from the sky, blinding purple bolts that danced across the sea in webs of light. Thunder followed. "The time has come to hide." Tyrion took Penny by the arm and led her belowdecks.

Her dog and pig were half-mad with fear. The dog knocked Tyrion right off his feet when they entered and the sow had been shitting everywhere. They tied down anything that was loose.

"I'm frightened," Penny confessed. The cabin began to tilt and jump as the waves hammered at the hull of the ship.

 _There are worse ways to die than drowning. Your brother learned that, Penny, and so did my lord father. And Shae, that lying cunt._

 _This time, as last, perhaps Alyce will pull me out of the black. Dying is not a sacrifice if she is there to pull me out on the other side._ But perhaps she would leave him standing alone in the end, as the rest had.

 _As they always will._

"We should play a game," he suggested. "That might help get our thoughts off the storm."

"Not _cyvasse_."

"Not _cyvasse_ ," he agreed as the deck rose under him. "When you were a little girl, did you ever play come-into-my-castle?"

"No. Can you teach me?"

Tyrion hesitated. _Fool of a dwarf. Of course she's never played come-into-my-castle. She never had a castle._ Come-into-my-castle was a game for highborn children, one meant to teach them courtesy, heraldry, and a thing or two about their lord father's friends and foes. "That game won't…" The deck gave another violent heave, slamming them into the wall. Penny gave a squeak of fright. Tyrion gritted his teeth. "That game won't do. Sorry. I don't know what game—"

"I do." Penny kissed him.

It was an awkward kiss, rushed, and clumsy. But it took him utterly by surprise. His hands jerked up and grabbed hold of her shoulders to shove her away. Instead, he hesitated. _I must be gentle_. Her lips were dry, hard, and shut tighter then a miser's purse. _A small mercy_. This was nothing he had wanted. He pitied Penny, he even admired Penny in a way, but he did not desire her. He had no wish to hurt her, though; the gods and his sweet sister had given her enough pain. So he let the kiss go on, holding her gently by the shoulders. His own lips stayed firmly shut. The _Selaesori Qhoran_ rolled and shuddered around them.

Finally she pulled back an inch or two. Tyrion could see his own reflection shining in her eyes. There was a lot of fear in those eyes, a little hope, and not a bit of lust. _She does not want me, no more than I want her._

"We cannot play that game, my lady." Above the thunder boomed, close at hand now.

"I never meant…I never kissed a boy before, but…I only thought, what if we drown, and I…I…"

"It was sweet," lied Tyrion, "but I am married." _Married._ He hated the word and its hollowness—its lie. _Married to a crofter's daughter. Married to the Lady of Winterfell. And heartsick for a black-haired ghost with king's eyes_. "She was with me at the feast, you may remember? Lady Sansa."

"Was she your wife? She…she was very beautiful…"

 _And false. Sansa, Shae, all my women…Tysha loved me once. And Alyce was… But she is gone._ "A lovely girl, and we were joined beneath the eyes of gods and men. It may be that she is lost to me, but until I know that for a certainty, I must be true to her."

"I understand."

 _Still young enough to believe such lies. If I am true, it is only because I have forgotten how to want since I killed my latest love._ Tyrion trembled briefly but not because of the shuddering of the floor.

The hull was creaking, the deck moving, and Pretty Pig was squealing in distress.

In the end, they did not drown…though there were times when the prospect of a nice, peaceful drowning had a certain appeal. The storm raged for the rest of that day and well into the night. Wet winds howled around them and waves rose like the fists of drowned giants to smash down on their decks. Tyrion managed to avoid retching his way through all of it, chiefly thanks to his newfound hatred of wine. Penny was not so fortunate, but he took care of her as the ship's hull creaked and groaned alarmingly around them, like a cask about to burst.

Nearby midnight the winds finally felt as if they were dying away, and the sea grew calm enough for Tyrion to make his way back up onto deck. What he saw there did not reassure him. The cog was drifting on a sea of dragonglass beneath a bowl of stars, but all around the storm raged on. East, west, north, south, everywhere he looked, the clouds rose up like black mountains, their tumbled slopes and colossal cliffs alive with blue and purple lightning. No rain was falling but the decks were slick and wet underfoot.

Tyrion could hear someone below, a thin, high voice hysterical with fear. Amidships, a dozen sailors were struggling with tangled lines and sodden canvas, but whether they were trying to raise the sail or pull it down he never knew. Whatever they were doing, it seemed to him a very bad idea. And so it was.

The wind returned as a whispered threat, cold and damp, brushing over his cheek, flapping the wet sail, swirling and tugging. Some instinct made Tyrion grab hold of the nearest rail, just in time. In the space of three heartbeats the little breeze became a howling gale. Then the rains came, black and blinding, and forecastle and sterncastle both vanished behind a wall of water. Something huge flapped overhead, and Tyrion glanced up in time to see the sail taking wing, with two men still dangling from the lines. Then he heard a crack. _Oh, bloody hell_ , he had time to think, _that had to be the mast_.

He found a line and pulled on it, fighting toward the hatch to get himself below out of the storm, but a gust of wind knocked his feet from under him and a second slammed him into the rail and there he clung. Rain lashed at his face, blinding him. His mouth was full of blood. The ship groaned and growled beneath him like a constipated fat man straining to shit.

Then the mast burst.

He never saw it, but he heard it. That cracking sound again and then scream of tortured wood, and suddenly the air was full of shards and splinters. One missed his eye by an inch, a second found his neck, a third went through his calf, boots and breeches and all. He screamed. But he held onto the line, held on with a desperate strength he did not know he had.

The widow said this ship would never reach her destination.

Then he laughed and laughed, wild and hysterical, as thunder boomed and timbers moaned and waves crashed all around him.

By the time the storm abated and the surviving passengers and crew came crawling back on deck, like pale pink worms wriggling to the surface after a rain, the _Selaesori Qhoran_ was a broken thing, floating low in the water and listing ten degrees to port, her hull sprung in half a hundred places, her hold awash in seawater, her mast a splintered ruin no taller than a dwarf. Nine men had been lost.

 _Prophesy is like a half-trained mule. It looks as though it might be useful, but the moment you trust in it, it kicks you in the head. That bloody widow knew this ship would never reach her destination, she warned us of that, said Benerro saw it in his fires, only I took that to mean…well, what does it matter? What it really meant was that some bloody big storm would turn our mast to kindling so we could drift aimlessly across the Gulf of Grief until our food ran out and we started eating one another. Who will they carve up first?_

The captain died the following day, the ship's cook three nights later. It was all the remaining crew could do to keep the wreck afloat. The mate who had assumed command reckoned they were somewhere off the Isle of Cedars. When he lowered the ship's boats to two them toward the nearest land, one sank and the men in the other cut the line and rowed off north, abandoning the cog and all their shipmates.

"Slaves," said Jorah Mormont, contemptuous.

Tyrion had scowled at him. He always scowled at him. It was that or attack him with teeth and nail and whatever splinters of the mast were nearby, and he knew he would only receive a brutal knee in the mouth for trying. A man needs his teeth.

 _She died trying to keep me from harm. I should try to make it worth something._

For nineteen days they drifted, as food and water dwindled. Penny huddled in her cabin with her dog and her pig, and Tyrion brought her food, limping on his bandaged calf. When he had nothing left to do, he pricked at his toes and fingers. Still no grey. Ser Jorah made a point of sharpening his sword each day, honing the point until it gleamed. The three remaining of Moqorro's fiery fingers lead the crew in prayer when the sun went down each night.

That morning, he woke to the sound of shouting.

The deck was moving under him, and for half a heartbeat he thought he was back on the _Shy Maid_. A whiff of pigshit brought him to his senses. The Sorrows were behind him, half a world away, and the joys of that time as well. He remembered how sweet Alyce had looked after her morning swim, with beads of water glistening on her naked skin, the merry clang and shouting of Duck and the prince's bouts, and the warmth of Alyce's body as she curled around him in sleep and soothed his shivering. The only one here was poor Penny, the stunted little dwarf girl.

Something was afoot, though. Tyrion slipped from the hammock, yawning, and looked about for his boots. He climbed on deck to see what the shouting was about. Penny was there before him, her eyes wide with wonder. "A sail," she shouted, "there, there, do you see? A sail, and they've seen us, they _have_."

He kissed her on the brow. The other ship was closing. A big galley, he saw. Her oars left a long white wake behind her.

Ser Jorah had an expression that made Tyrion question his relief as he gazed out toward the incoming galley. His hand was on the hilt of his sword. Tyrion swallowed his loathing and asked brusquely, "What ship is this? Can you read her name?"

"I don't need to read her name. We're downwind. I can smell her." He drew his sword. "That's a slaver."

…

 _I hadn't considered pretending to be a camp follower._

Alyce watched Dusten lead a little brown-haired thing into his tent from where she sat by the cookfire, roasting some sausages and toasting bread to eat them with. _No, it would not have been possible._ Most of the followers had skin a deep bronze and old slave tattoos at the corners of their eyes. _I would have stuck out too much with my Westerosi features._ _I would have been too wanted. I stick out enough as it is. Here I have free food, a sleeping mat, and relative freedom. This was the best course._

That did not make it easy.

Fox Face brought some sausages over to cook across from her, barely giving her a glance. Alyce had begun to nickname the men whose faces she saw often but did not care about or could not remember their names. There were five or six languages in the camp always, and once in a while she heard the Common Tongue, but she stuck to Pentoshi. She could speak it well and she had not been called out for it yet. Mostly she attempted to be uninteresting and intellectually dull so that no notice would be taken of her.

There were those who knew this was not so, however. She had not been able to escape a weapons test when she first signed so the Company would know where to place her. She had chosen the Company of the Cat over the Long Lances as she had never trained at all with a lance, and they had tested her swordsmanship in order to find where she might fit in the ranks. She kept a lid on her skill, but mere muscle memory could not be denied, and her skill, though it did not appear exemplary, had nonetheless been apparent.

She had also made the mistake in the first tent she was given of attempting to fit in by playing cards. She had not known any of the local games, and the men made fun of her until she consented to show them one she knew. They had taken to it with a zeal, and she had been forced to instruct and was still asked to play often. _It is difficult not to get close to anyone when I play cards with some of them almost every night._ She said as little as possible and kept an eye on those she knew had been watching during her test.

Fogo, Blue Boots, Qarr, and Jorquen Freed Man, as well as some officers she knew by sight and not by name had seen her swordsmanship. Dusten, Whistling Hod, and Tregero were the three that played most often with her and knew her best—what little she showed. Dusten was too full of himself to notice much about anyone besides himself, but she worried about the other two. Tregero might have been convinced by her dull replies to questions about her past, but she did not know if Whistling Hod had been as convinced.

She knew she was bunked with men who were at a similar weapons level as she as well, so all of these men could be formidable adversaries if they so wished. She shaved her jaw almost every morning when she could, and applied a light dusting of brown powder if she had gone more than a day without. The men in the third tent she had shared had called her "Cheeks" to make fun of her smooth jaw, but luckily it had not caught on. There were plenty of young men in the Company—some young enough only to sport a little peach fuzz. She could not help that she was prettier than most of them, however. Some of the men glanced twice at her, the ones, she guessed, that wished to bed a man over bedding a woman.

Pissing, shitting, and bathing were the most difficult aspects of living as a man. Her usual recourse was to find a place no one was looking, unlace her breaches, and shove a tin cup between her legs to catch her piss. This way she did not have to take off her pants and boots and could lace again hurriedly. Daily shits were the most difficult, but from the earliest few days, she forced herself onto a schedule of waking and eating early in order to relieve herself before most of the camp was awake—and at a time when the watch was the most lax. She could sneak to a safe spot in the surrounding trees or brush and squat in relative comfort.

As for bathing, she simply did not do so often. She washed her legs, face, and arms privately when she could and once had a wonderful bath in a cool stream nearby camp which she found on her morning walk through the brush. She changed clothes and her wrappings in the brush in the mornings, and did not take off much to sleep at night. It was uncomfortable, but bearable. Her breasts ached.

The extra material she wore to flush out her waist weighed heavy and hot on her as well. Luckily she was able to wash her clothes often, and she changed through her pairs of clothes early every morning in order to keep her smell bearable. _Most of these men smell hugely as well. I will fit in better if I have a little stink to me._

No one appeared to care that she never went shirtless, but she could not tell for sure and certain who was or was not thinking about something. All she could do was try her best to be a boring, slightly slow Pentoshi prettyboy.

The Company took the demon road at a smart pace. They were needed for the siege on the hills around Meereen. Alyce was glad for the speed. She knew she needed it to catch Ser Jorah and Tyrion.

The fear that tormented her when she lied down to sleep at night was that the dragon queen would sentence Tyrion to be killed the moment after learning who he was. When she considered such things, something heavy and acidic twisted in her gut.

If she arrived and that was the case, half of her would want to find Connington and Aegon again and be part of their story. But she knew she would owe it to Varys to return to King's Landing and admit her defeat. _He will be terribly disappointed in me._

Alyce imagined finding out Tyrion was dead and realized she would need time before returning to King's Landing. She would need time to seal herself up again after the pain of it.

 _I never would have imagined myself caring so much about the life of a dwarf and a Lannister. How absurd I would have thought myself._

She turned over her slice of bread over the fire and grimaced to see she had slightly burnt it. She was careful with the second side, and then ate it hot.

…


	19. V: The Demon Road

…

V.

The Demon Road

 **A** lyce Waters discarded and glanced at Whistling Hod who sat across the trunk they were using as a table. He met her eyes. He was a quiet Braavosi with inky dark skin, so dark it had a more greyish tinge than brown.

"He left Hod a Lady," Blue Boots muttered sourly, grimacing. "Alyn's got a pair of Crowns—I'd bet on it."

Dusten glanced at Alyce doubtfully. He drew, considered, and then laid down a Priest.

"We should play Spit after this," Blue Boots said, drawing and looking disappointed. "I've had enough this game."

"You always want to play that."

"It's the only game he actually wins sometimes."

"Fuck yourself." Blue Boots discarded the same card he had picked up—a Castle. Whistling Hod smiled, picked it up, and lay down a pair of Castles and a pair of Crowns. The boys all groaned and threw down their cards.

"Bugger you, Hod."

They'd only put a couple coppers into the winner's pile, though, and Hod pocketed them only as an afterthought. Alyce stood.

"Sit your arse," Blue Boots directed at her. "We need four for Spit."

"Find Tregero," she replied, apathetic. She went to her cot.

"You're fun as a sick old man."

Alyce made an elderly groaning noise as she settled into her cot and Dusten rolled his eyes. Heavy boots crunched on the stone outside, the tent flap opened, and Tregero stepped inside. He pulled out a skin of wine and there were hushed hurrahs. Drinking was outlawed in the camp, but Tregero always seemed to know where to find a skin. He was an olive-skinned and pushy Yunkai'i sellsword with green eyes. He glanced at Alyce lying in her cot.

"Wine, pretty boy?" he asked, coming over to her. She shook her head, watching him with bored, dull eyes. He squatted near her, but whatever he was going to say next was interrupted by Blue Boots.

"Give it here, good _ser_." Boots swatted the skin away, and Tregero stood to follow him back to the trunk table. "More for us." Alyce turned her back on them and pulled the scratchy coverings up until they were under her arms.

It was rumored that tomorrow the Company would reach the furthest they were going to travel; a camp set up for them amidst the sprawl of sellsword companies surrounding the hard-beset queen. The more Alyce heard of the queen's predicament, the less she wanted to ally herself with her. _Her enemies are closing in all around her and bite at her from within. But I need only watch her. To see and watch and wait for Tyrion._ If he was not already there. Or dead. Or was even being taken to Daenerys.

Alyce closed her eyes and listened to Dusten, Blue Boots, Fogo, and Tregero drink while she pretended she could somehow sleep through it. In the dead and earliest hours of the still-dark morning, they still were rowdy, and, still without much sleep, she felt as if she might go mad, so she got up, pulled on her boots amidst the ruckus, and shouldered out the tent.

The night was fair and cool. She had been surprised at first at how cool the nights in this land could be after the arid, blistering days. _A land of extremes._ There were no autumns here, only rainy and dry seasons by turns. It was dry now, the land scorched by the Great Masters when they had learned Queen Daenerys was marching on the city. The dust in the air dried her throat. There was nothing to eat if one did not carry provisions, and by the telling of it, both the land and water were diseased. Scores of refugees besieged by the bloody flux were said to be encamped outside the closed gates of the city.

There were almost no trees in this dry land, but there were rocks aplenty—huge boulders sometimes twice as tall as a man. Alyce walked a ways through the piles of them, and then stopped to lean against one—a tall jutting that came up past her shoulders. She gazed at the moon. Even it looked wan and dry in this desert land, instead of its usual snowy white. Separated from the main camp but for sporadic guards, she felt alone. The stars were bright, but somehow looked thirsty as well, like the eyes of mad men.

She had watched the stars with Tyrion from the roof of the _Shy Maid_ , and, gazing at them, she remembered that evening. The constellations they had pointed out, the secrets they had admitted to. Her chest gave an ache.

 _But if I had the stars from the darkest night,  
And the diamonds from the deepest ocean,  
I'd forsake them all for your sweet kiss,  
For that's all I wish to be owning._

"Pretty boy. Hey pretty boy."

She turned and saw Tregero. He was walking toward her, steps confident but heavy and tottering from wine.

He laughed under his breath. "No no." He laughed again. "You might have the rest of them fooled, but they don't have eyes. I could just _smell_ it. I can just smell your little cunt, sweetling. Hey, sweetling."

She surveyed him coolly, keeping an eye on his feet. _Feet always betray intentions._ She was not afraid of him. Afraid of what he apparently knew, but not afraid of him. He was one man, and drunk.

 _It seems it has come time for me to part with the Company._

"Clever man," she murmured, giving him a warm smile. He smiled in return, relaxing and moving toward her. He reached out a hand and shoved his fingers against where he knew she had no cock. The wild excitement in his eyes gave a true sweetness to taking his head in her hands and bashing it violently into the rock beside them.

She left him where he crumped. The pulpiness of the back of his skull and the glass of his eyes had given her no doubt he was good and dead. She stepped around the rocks and back toward camp.

Her heart sank when she saw Whistling Hod making a beeline for her, his black skin making the whites of his eyes stand out.

 _Tregero, Blue Boots, and Dusten I could have killed without a regret, but Hod?_ She grimaced. Hod was clever and never crass. She liked him.

There was worry in his eyes when he reached her.

"You alright? I saw Tregero…"

She narrowed her eyes. "You saw him what?"

"Leave after you left." He glanced around them, pivoting slightly. She recognized the angling of his body and gave an exasperated noise. _Protective. Of me._

"You know too?" she demanded under her breath.

He glanced back at her. "I thought it was just me. Until I saw Tregero watch you leave. But I couldn't get away from the game fast enough. I—"

"You don't want to be part of this. They could hang both of us. Just pretend you don't know anything when we get back to the tent."

When they got back, Hod began to brag of a new camp follower he had found, and the boys demanded to meet her. He was getting them out of the tent so she could pack up without attracting notice, and she sent him a grateful glance before they were gone.

Alyce moved her belongings out to a hiding spot in three small trips as not to attract attention. Then she donned all her weaponry and her pack and snuck through the guarded outer reaches of the camp. She knew Tregero's body could be found at any point from now until dawn, and she wanted to be out before a hue and cry went up.

She had learned the guard patterns from her weeks learning where she would be able to shit in peace in the early hours of the morning, and she slipped almost easily through. Even as easy as her escape had been, she could not celebrate. She still had one more day of the demon road to go before reaching the siege camps surrounding Meereen. The road was death if the Company caught up to her, and death if she remained alone.

She pulled her dark grey hood low over her eyes, and stuck to shadows at the edges of the road, trying to get as many leagues under her boots as she could before she lost the protective cover of darkness.

…

Under any other circumstances, Alyce would have found a safe hiding spot far away from the road to sleep during the day, and traveled at night, but she could not afford such slow, careful moving with the Company at her back. Even as it was, she was wasting precious time.

From her hiding spot amid crevasses of huge red and grey stones along the road, she had let groups already pass her by. What had looked like a quarter of a slave army, a darkly-guarded train of merchant's food carts, and a motley gang somewhere between sellswords and brigands had already passed. She knew they would never allow her to even tail them. They would likely shoot her on sight.

Finally, after another agonizing hour, a promising group came into view. They had a train of horse carts and men guarding the carts riding alongside, but the men were dressed in colorful fabrics, with copper coins sewed in. Some wore monkey tail hats. Hanging along the sides of the wagons were poles and huge sheets of colored fabric. Alyce knew who they were then—an acting troupe. A huge and proud one, at that. They would have women and maybe even children with them. She kissed her hand toward the sky to bless the fates and scrambled down from her hiding spot, grunting at her aches, to put herself in their path.

She stood at the edge of the road and stripped herself of the outer padded clothes that concealed her gender. She belted her pants tighter and higher. She stood with her hands up in supplication. The moment she came into view, they trained crossbows on her. It made her heart hammer, but she kept her arms up and her head bowed slightly.

They said nothing to her, but the man riding at the front of the large party rode to her. He did not stop beside her—the troupe seemed it would stop for nothing—so she was forced to walk beside his horse while keeping her arms aloft. The animal was a huge black workhorse, and the man himself was almost as similarly covered in coarse black hair. Where he did not have hair, his skin was tanned as leather. His oiled black facial hair was braided in a short, thick braid, as was the hair on his head; it ended in a band at the back of his neck. He was not Dothraki—his features were more noble. Volentene? Lhazari? He wore dark green and purple fabrics with copper coins sewn into his collars and cuffs. A long, thick scimitar hung at his belt, and an axe hung off the side of his workhorse within reach. His eyes were dark green and unyielding.

He grunted to her in Lhazari. She hoped her limited Ghiscari and almost nonexistent Lhazari would be close enough to be understood. In a broken mixture of the two foreign languages she begged, "Please I am a woman alone. I need a group. Protection. I will hurt no one. I will help." She glanced at his face to see how he might be taking this information—if he could even understand her. He was scowling. He gestured back to his troupe, who had not stopped.

"We have horses," he grunted in Ghiscari, far better accented than hers.

She did not know how to say "I will keep up" in Ghiscari. Instead she mangled the words for "I am fast."

He grunted again. This was where she knew being a woman would help her. If she were a man, the Lhazari might have accepted her, but would also have forced her to walk in the very front of the troupe, so if they were targeted, she would be the first to die, which would alert them to danger. Most common people would not be so unchivalrous to ask this of a woman, however.

"Give me your weapons. Your sword. Now." The man reached for her weapons. It was like drinking poison to offer up her sword and knife belt, but she swallowed it. It was her sword or her life, she knew. And she still had weapons hidden under her clothes if she had need of them.

Once he had her weapons, he raised his voice to bark something in quick Lhazari to someone behind them. Alyce glanced around quickly, unable to understand his grunted words, and needing to know if he had by chance asked one of the crossbowmen to rid them of her.

But another man wrapped endlessly in red fabrics and a niqab veil made his way toward her. He had a handsomer brown horse. When he saw Alyce watching him approach, he lifted his head and jerked his hand to indicate she should go to him. Alyce realized it was actually a large woman, well-fed but shrewd of face. She looked tanned and weathered, but there was still something about her mouth and cheekbones that had a woman's handsomeness. She wore a Braavosi rapier at her hip and a crossbow was slung across the back of her saddle.

"Stay beside my horse," she instructed firmly in excellent Ghiscari, peering very critically at Alyce. Alyce had to concentrate to try to get the gist of her quick words in the unfamiliar tongue. Her voice was nothing like the man's gruff growling—her tones were metered and well-learned. The woman's eyes traveled slowly over her, taking in every inch of her appearance. Alyce bowed her head humbly.

"Thank you," she murmured in broken Ghiscari. "Thank you. I mean no harm. Thank you."

The woman grunted and barked something at the man who had spoken to Alyce before. Their exchange in Lhazari was too quick for Alyce to catch any of, which she did not like. But at least they had allowed her to remain with them. Her exhausted muscles quaked with relief.

After the two had spoken, the woman returned herself to the place in the train she had been in before, and Alyce stuck close to her, placing herself on the inside side of the woman's horse. The protection of the horses and carts around her on every side felt as good as a warm bath.

From one of the wagons behind her, a small boy's voice called out something questioning in Lhazari and the mother rather violently cut him off, snapping loudly at him to keep quiet. The boy was silenced.

Alyce was exhausted from her sleepless night, but did not allow herself to stop walking. She watched as the troupe's men shot brigands hiding in the rocks with their crossbows. They were superb shots, and left the rocks around certain dangerous turns smeared with red blood. The high number of men trained with the crossbows insured that even if there were more groups hiding in the rocks to molest travelers, they would not chance attacking. This troupe was a fearsome lot, varied in their ethnicities and outfits, and all clever in their ways. Some moved like trained dancers, some looked like jugglers, some acrobats, musicians, and actors. A few had the aristocratic airs of wealth, and others moved as if they knew what it was to be out alone on dangerous streets. But all of them were clothed well, and from Alyce could see, they had no lack of food or water. Some even had books, puppets, and the few children Alyce glimpsed had little toys.

There were more women about than she had suspected at first. They were difficult to distinguish from the men, as many had their heads and faces wrapped in fabric to keep the dust off. Some kept to the wagons, but others traded guard shifts with the men. Those who traded climbed out of and into the wagons, and Alyce realized they were taking sleeping shifts. That meant the troupe never stopped. Her gut clenched. She could not go without sleep indefinitely, and would have to part with them sooner than she wanted. Her feet were already numb from the smart pace and her legs were beginning to join them. She grit her teeth.

The man who had spoken first to her seemed to be one of the leaders of the troupe. She imagined he had been on his guard shift since the previous night, because around midday, when the sun was hottest, he went into a wagon for a few hours of sleep. Another man took up the head.

The woman she had been walking beside had given her a straw hat from one of the wagons, and made sure she had enough water. Alyce was grateful for that kindness, but still she was suffering under the heat. Still she made no noise and did not slow down. She had built a tan from traveling with the Company, and she was glad for its protection. She had shed every layer of clothing she could, and sometimes switched from carrying her pack on her back to her arms so the sweat on her back could dry. Her head was not yet foggy with exhaustion, but she could feel it coming, like the feeling in the air before a storm.

"You'll come with me now."

Alyce had been staring at the ground in her weariness, and it took her a moment to register what the woman had said to her.

"Where?" she asked. Her throat was dry and it made her voice hoarse as a creaking wheel.

"To a wagon for sleep."

Alyce trembled with gratitude. A man had taken the reins of the woman's horse and she dismounted and led Alyce to the wagon behind them. Inside, the male leader Alyce had spoken to first, an old man, and a little boy were sleeping on blankets on the floor of the spacious wagon. The woman watched Alyce climb in with narrowed eyes, her hand hovering near her rapier.

Alyce sat, groaning softly, on the floor of the wagon against one of its posts. The shade of the wagon's burlap cover was glorious, and the feeling of not having to move her legs anymore made her want to weep.

The woman woke the old man and the boy and spoke swiftly to the old man. The man nodded, his sharp, suspicious eyes on Alyce. The boy was listening raptly, also watching her. The woman began lying down next to the leader. Alyce ignored them—the call of sleep was too much for her. She curled up where she was on the dirty wooden floor of the lumbering wagon and was immediately unconscious.

…

From what little she could understand of Lhazari, she knew they were discussing her.

She pretended to still be asleep to see if she could understand any of it. The leader and his wife seemed to be no longer in the wagon—only the young boy and the old man were speaking.

It was of little use. She only understood random terms like "girl" and "no." She sat up. They immediately hushed.

"Hello," the boy said brightly in perfect Ghiscari. "You slept a long time."

She knew the present and future tense in Ghiscari in a rudimentary sense, but could not remember how to conjugate the past. She replied awkwardly, "I…tired." She reached for a skin of water near her and sucked it down.

"Your Ghiscari is not very good," he said frankly. He tried Braavsoi. "Do you speak Braavosi? Pentoshi? Qohorik? Tyroshi? Volentene?" For each different language, he switched languages and accents. She stared at him.

Her Pentoshi was best, so she switched to that. "I speak Pentoshi, Braavosi, the Common Tongue of Westeros, and High Valyrian."

The boy's eyes had widened, as had the old man's.

"You speak High Valyrian?" the boy asked her in High Valyrian.

She could only stare at him again. High Valyrian was a language for scholars and nobles and those who simply wanted to be able to boast that they could speak the antiquated and formal tongue. It was not a language for nomad mummer's sons.

" _You_ speak it?"

He smiled proudly and looked at the old man. "My grandfather taught me. My mother's family are all scholars. They all went to the Academy of Alesender. I will too someday. Who are you?"

"A bodyguard…who lost the person she was supposed to guard," she answered honestly.

"You're Westerosi, aren't you?"

"Why do you think so?"

"You're so pale and your eyes are so wide and light. And your iron is of Westeros."

"Will I be getting that iron back? I'm partial to my weapons."

"My father will give them back to you. We have enough of our own. Why is all your hair cut off?"

The old man glanced at him with a frown. The boy was asking a rude amount of questions, but Alyce would much rather be in here answering a curious child's questions than outside walking. It seemed they had allowed her to sleep through the rest of that day and likely most of the night. It was still dark outside the wagon; perhaps very early morning.

 _I've slept through the lion's share of the last of the road between me and the queen. The gods are good._

"I cut my hair to look like a man. It's safer for a man to travel than a woman." Her bound breasts ached. _But not exactly convenient._

"Whom did you lose? Why are you their bodyguard?"

"Does that seem to you a question a good bodyguard should give a stranger the answer to?"

"But you're _not_ a good bodyguard."

The old man made a noise of protest against his grandson's rudeness, but Alyce breathed a rough laugh.

"Aye, you're not wrong," she sighed.

The boy giggled, then squirmed with curiosity again. This one had been well-loved, she saw. He trusted too much for his own good.

"Where did you live in Westeros? What's it like? Did you fight in the War of the Five Kings? Did you ever see any of the kings? Have you ever seen the palace of Dorne? Have you ever seen the castles at Riverrun or Storm's End?" The boy's life was an acting troupe, and he had likely been everywhere one could travel in Essos, but it seemed he had never been across the Narrow.

"I did not fight in the war, but I was in King's Landing when Lord Stannis Baratheon's fleet attempted to take the city and the power of Casterly Rock and Highgarden defeated him," she answered him, indulging his curiosity. "I've seen the castle at Storm's End. It was rebuilt seven times by Durran the Hero to defy the wrath of the sea god. It is a mighty fortress that has never fallen to any attacker."

The boy's eyes were big as moonstones.

She continued, "I have seen kings from afar in the crowds. I have seen King Robert Baratheon, and King Joffrey after him. I saw the crowning of little King Tommen and I many times glimpsed Lord Tywin Lannister, who they said truly ruled the Realm—until his murder."

After that, she could not rid herself of the boy. He wanted to know all about King's Landing and King Robert, about the Battle of the Blackwater, about Storm's End, all in High Valyrian. He was fluent as a little maester. He asked after her name, her parentage, her education, her knowledge of magic. She gave him some lies, but gave him more truths. At one point he asked her if she preferred being a man. Apparently he had met a fair share of men that fancied dressing up as women.

She had answered him, "No. I am glad I was born a woman."

"Why?" He always asked 'why' about everything.

"Because a woman's orgasm is far superior," she answered him.

At that point, his grandfather decided it was time the boy should run and fetch his mother, and he sent him out of the wagon.

The boy returned with her, and Alyce immediately switched back to Ghiscari to thank her for her kindnesses.

"Jophiel says you are a Westerosi shield who speaks High Valyrian," the woman greeted her in perfect High Valyrian. _'My mother's family are scholars,' the boy had said._ She should not have been surprised, but she was all the same.

Alyce regarded her suspiciously. It had been easy enough discussing herself with a child, but this woman was another matter. She was far less innocent than her son, and absurdly educated. Highly educated people could be just as highly dangerous.

"And you are a trouper who speaks the same," she answered her. "We are both of us oddities."

The woman looked suddenly insulted and Alyce realized she had erred. Jophiel's mother drew herself up and announced with feeling, " _We_ are the Spinners of Chestnut and Lhahar! The troupe of the _Tale of Nine Tears_ and of _Mantarys Oil_! We ride with Argolio Twelve-Strings, Deadly Nik, and _Ivannis the Great Diviner_! For hundreds of years, we have been guests of honor at palaces and pyramids and great manses all across Essos! We _all_ speak at least _five_ languages, and my family has been scholars of high honor at the Academy of Alesender for generations! This is _not_ just some _mummer's troupe_ , girl!"

Her temper was hot as a pepper, and her breath and sweat both smelled of spices. Alyce had lowered her head.

"My deepest and sincerest apologies," she murmured.

"She's not even from this continent," put in the grandfather on her behalf. "She can't be expected to recognize us. Sit down."

The woman sat, still sour. "It _used_ to be that people even in the west knew of us."

"Only _I_ can remember those golden years, Madrira, and they are gone. We still have our pride, and the girl now knows better than to offend you again." He gave Alyce a forced smile. "There now. Tell the girl we are almost to Meereen."

Alyce looked at Madrira. "Truly?"

"We will be there in the evening."

"I will part with you there. I'll be no more trouble. And I can pay for your kindness."

The woman waved away the offer. "Chestnut and Lhahar can more than afford to protect women alone on the demon road. You keep your coins. You'll need them."

"Why can't you stay?" her son demanded, speaking up for the first time. "If you're good with a sword, you can do bouts and jousts with us and play a pirate in _The Isles of the Summer Sea_ —"

"I can't stay on with you, love," she told the boy gently. "I have a real pirate to find and fight."

The woman stood. To Alyce, she said, "You stay in the wagon, child—your calves are swollen as cantaloupes. Keep my son occupied and we'll all be the happier for it." She walked away and dropped out the back of the wagon back onto the dusty road.

Gratefully, Alyce did as asked as the boy's grandfather looked on protectively. Jophiel showed her tricks of deception and entertainment and then, at her request, slowly taught her how to do all of them. He was an impatient teacher. At one point, the grandfather produced some salted horsemeat jerky, some odd fruit, and a sack of nuts and seeds, and they lunched. Alyce kept the boy thoroughly occupied telling her about all the places he had traveled and teaching her sleight-of-hand tricks.

Alyce massaged her feet and legs as they rode, grateful all over again for the troupe's kindness when she saw the state of her feet. She cleaned the bleeding blisters with some of the water and a cloth she had in her pack, applied some ointment Varys had sent with her, and wrapped them in cloth bandages and thick, fresh socks.

Late in the afternoon, the boy grew tired and napped. Alyce was anxious for Meereen, but knew safe sleeping would prove hard to come by very soon, and she caught some sleep with him.

…


	20. VI: City of Dust

…

VI.

City of Dust

 **A** lyce woke to the smell.

Somehow, despite knowing there were slave armies amassing to lay siege to her, and flocks of refugees spreading sickness outside her gates, Alyce had expected to find the great Dragon Queen's fastness to be somehow more…majestic. Instead, it smelled of unburied shit, was dry and dusty as everything else, and was full of nothing but chaos.

True, they were nowhere near the city walls, so perhaps what was inside them was more impressive, but the lands outside her walls was nothing but waste and noise.

Alyce dropped down onto the dusty dirt that was hard as rock. Even from here, just beyond the army camps, the Great Pyramid where the queen resided seemed leagues away. She had a tumble of ideas in her mind of how to breach the city's walls, but none of them were failsafe. And all of them required her getting through the horde of sellswords.

There was no going around. The city's massive walls were built on what appeared to be part of a mountain or great plateau—the rocky rise gave an extra hundred feet to the walls, and at an angle, so anyone approaching would be easily spied as they traveled up the rocks. The only part where this was not the case was the massive stone bridge spanning across the Skahazadhan River over which Meereen had been built. The only way to approach the walls without being seen and targeted by guards high above would be from the river onto the sheer supports of the stone bridge. The bridge had wide stone arches, making it also the wall with the shortest distance to climb needed before one could force oneself into the wall. The trouble was fighting one's way down on the other side.

Alyce thanked Madrira's husband as he gave her back her weapons and she busied herself in making herself a man again. Whatever she was going to do she ought to do it quickly. There was no place to sleep in safety in these rocky hills, especially not with a tempting-looking pack. She ought to make her break into the city now while she still had fresh strength.

Alyce made her goodbyes to Jophiel, leaving in his wagon everything from her pack she did not feel was essential. She left clothing, most of her small books, and many cloths, tools, and some medicines. She left almost none of her weapons, however, because she knew she might lose many of them breaking into the city. _An army cannot breach a city, but one man alone has a chance. Cities are full of holes. Shit must come out, food must go in. There are smuggler's holes and unmanned stretches of wall and the like._

Jophiel looked both elated by the new things and miserable about her departure.

"The world is not so big, love," she told him. "Perhaps we will meet again and you can give me my books and maps back, mm?"

He nodded, but they both knew how unlikely it was.

Alyce was on her way then, weaving through the troupe, then crossing a short, red-dust field to the tents of the armies, spread like ugly mushrooms across the burnt land. A red sun had already sunk in the west, but the evening still had light to it. Men were less suspicious by light, and so she did not wait to enter the slim no-man's land between two sellsword battalions far to the left near the river.

She had none of the clothes the Company had given her, neither on her person nor in her pack, so she did not look to be a soldier nor a slave, but still had a sellsword look about her that caused a number of guards to stop her and check her face against their captain's memory.

She had a few logs thrown at her for a laugh from a group of soldiers sitting around their fire near the edges of the camp, and four times she had to wrench out her bow and threaten groups of would-be thieves with it before they shied away. At one point, two quick sellswords decided to chance it, dodged her arrows, and reached her. Alyce had had to drop her bow to whip her sword and a knife out of its sheath to defend herself. After a flurry of blows in which the attackers realized her skill was greater than their own combined, they left her. But each attack left her rattled. Any of these men could be more skilled than her, and if two or three of her level decided to attack her, that would be the end of things. Luckily it seemed the ones with more skill had enough going for them not to need to risk attacking a strange sellsword.

It took hours to cross through the camps, and darkness had truly fallen by the time she reached the outskirts near the edge of the river. Guards had stopped her more often when it grew dark, but none of them had recognized her face, so they all had allowed her to pass. There had been no more attacks since darkness had truly fallen. Men's courage falls with the night.

Now Alyce stood at the edges of the Skahazadhan River alone.

She was a ways from the slave camps and far enough away from Meereen's great wall not to be seen by guard's eyes. She eyed the river, scowling. It ran through Meereen and out, and she had learned during her time with the Company that the Meereenese dump their waste into it, while they draw their water from deep wells inside the city. The river was not one a person with any sense would wade into. And yet it was her best option.

The night was blessedly dark. There was only the tiniest sliver of a moon. The stars were bright in the clear sky, but their light was not strong enough to light her to the eyes of any guards. She knew the torches in the sconces in their high walls kept them nightblind. The water looked black in the darkness when she waded into it. It was cool but not cold, and Alyce wished it could be colder. Cold purifies. This water was anything but pure.

Her mind grew accustomed to the smell sooner than she would have believed, but she found more than water and human waste in the river. Her hands brushed dead things—human and animal—floating in the water, among other waste. Vomit rose to the back of her mouth often, but she focused on breathing as steadily as possible and forced it back down. She never once opened her mouth and breathed only through her nose, keeping her head high and away from the water.

She swam hard. There was no other way—the current was pushing against her.

Finally, short of breath, she reached the stones of one of the bridge's bases and clung to it, regaining her strength. Then she took out her two strongest knives and began to climb. The knives bit deep into the cracks between the old stones and with those holds, and the pure strength of her arms and the help of occasional footholds, she slowly scaled the side of the bridge. She was utterly vulnerable now from attack from above, but the face was sheer, and she was difficult to see, especially in the dark. Just a small black dot shifting slowly upwards.

Her clothes dried quickly in the dry air, making her smell obscene. Her fingers grew raw, her arm muscles burned, and four times one of her knives slipped out and she was left holding onto only one in the night air with perhaps only a feeble foothold for added support until she could jam it back into a space between stones. The muscles in her arms began to sear as if they were submerged in hot oil, and she became more careful with her movements. Spent muscles were unreliable. She was shaking, but there was nothing for it but to continue. She would never have made it up the normal walls, but the walls of the bridge were spanned by wide open archways, which created an opening much lower than the actual wall height.

Alyce's consciousness was an animalistic smear of pain when she reached the arch she had been climbing toward for what felt like hours. She hauled herself over like so much grain—like a sick, crawling cat—and allowed herself to fall the four feet to the stone floor of the inside of the great arched bridge.

 _Fuck the Father bloody. Fuck the Stranger in every one of his fucking holes. Fuck…_

The inside of the bridge was dark and wide, but oil lanterns hung at intervals along the walls, and a guard had seen her come in. She watched him jog to her, drawing his weapon—a short spear. She watched him approach, unmoving. Even though he was only one man, it would be too risky to try to kill him in her current state—and from the low ground. She needed at least a few minutes to recover.

The guard approached her, spear out. She watched him and his spear, still unmoving.

He commanded something in the Meereenese dialect of Low Valyrian, jabbing toward her with his spear. She imagined he either wanted her to tell him something or wanted her to get up.

"Give me just a moment, darling," she replied in Pentoshi in her normal voice. "I've had a long climb."

Her voice and the recognition of her true gender shocked the guard, but he mastered himself and jabbed toward her again. He commanded something roughly again.

"Alright, now, you just take it easy, love," she murmured, stifling a groan as she began to stand slowly. "I'll go nice like a kitten." She wondered how far down the inside of this outer wall she would be able to get on her own looking like a civilian man. Likely not far.

Alyce rolled her shoulders slightly, gauging the strength in them. Then, in one fluid motion, stifling a grunt of pain, she crossed her arms over her body and drew her shortsword and a knife. She blocked his spear with her knife, feinted with her sword, and struck his knee hard enough with her boot to dislocate it. Almost before he had time to shout, she brought her hilt down hard on the back of his neck.

She had not struck quite hard enough, and had only caused him to collapse to the floor, dazed. Her strength was not what it usually was at the moment. Groaning with the pain of using her arms, she tossed him on his stomach, pinned his upper arms to the stone floor with her knees, and began a blood choke from behind. His eyes rolled up into unconsciousness within moments. She held the posture for half a minute longer to make sure and certain of his death, even as she heard another guard, drawn by the shout, running to them.

She stood and began to dodge this guard's attacks, keeping their fight quiet. The only sounds were his grunts as she evaded his thrusts, dancing back and then around and then away, looking for the moment when her knife or sword would see an opening and spray the guard's blood across the stone. The guard was not Unsullied, thank the gods—apparently the queen did not waste her best on guarding uninteresting city walls. She was exhausted, but the fighting was encouraging reserves of energy in her veins to flare, and evasion in a large space was favorite way to fight. She learned while on the defense. She saw. And then she sprung.

The dirty stone drank the second guard's blood while she undressed the first hurriedly in the dimness, discarding her filthy clothes, ripping them in her speed, and pulling his clothes on. She took his spear and his helmet as well. She was frightened that more guards were going to begin to pour through one of the bridge entrances far away to left and right, but the night was quiet except for her shuffling as she yanked on the uniform. There was nothing she could do about the distinct oddness of her pack, but she hoped the darkness would conceal it passably. When she was dressed and ready, she heaved the two guards over the side of the archway and they fell down into the dark of the river below.

Silent as a cat, she crept downwards, taking unfamiliar stairways and stone halls. Her arms trembled at her sides. She passed one guard at a distance who did not trouble her, but one she passed up close gave her a startled look. She hurried on instead of engaging. If he reported her, hopefully she would be well enough away. Down stairs and more stairs. Alyce began to take them three at a time, all but flying toward the ground and the safety of the chaos of the city.

She had to clamber and vault over one more stone wall and then there was the city. It was the dead of night, but still the lights of the bars and whorehouses were aglow and some people were still out on the streets. She flew along the dirty streets, zigging and zagging through random alleys and roads. Even if onlookers could point to the direction she had been headed in, she would be going a different direction not a minute later. Instead of heading directly to the Great Pyramid, she began circling wide around. And when she spied a dark and open doorway, she slipped into it.

It seemed to be some sort of millhouse, and she could hear the owner of the place in a back room. Silently as possible, she opened a blessedly well-oiled broom closet door and closed herself into it. It was pitch black, but silently as she could, brushing against a bucket of rags and a pile of wooden crates, she stripped herself of the soldier's garb, stuffing it into her half-empty pack, but abandoning the helm and the spear. She donned her dark grey cloak and then stood still in the closet, breathing and taking stock of herself while the owner of the millhouse grunted, carrying things outside through the open door. Her hands needed tending to, but she did not have the water to waste on cleaning them, and besides, she was blind in this darkness. Now that she was out of danger, she could feel how her arm muscles screamed and shook. She needed a night or two in an inn.

When the owner went back into his other room, Alyce slipped out the closet and back out into the dark street. She walked a time, moving in toward the Great Pyramid, and the homes and shops grew wealthier as she went. She scrubbed at her face, making sure no particular noticeable bits of grime were still sticking to her. Finally an inn looked about right. She kept coins in her pack, her cloak, the inside of one of her pairs of pants, and tucked into an extra pouch of leather in her swordbelt. She dug for the coins in her pack and shouldered into the respectable inn.

A room was about the price Alyce would have expected, but meals were obscenely expensive due to the siege. The innkeeper had curled his lip when he took in her smell, but the ample Meereenese gold Illyrio had provided her with could not be sneered at. She grunted her wants in Pentoshi, which the guard thankfully was familiar with, and she used the low voice she had been using in camp to be a man. She paid, and then asked for hot water to be brought to her room before she took a meal. She had paid extra for a room with a copper tub in it for privacy, as opposed to using the communal bathhouse.

Alyce unbound her breasts, discarding the dirty and ruined material, and could not bite back her gasp of pain as her breasts returned to their natural shape. They ached viciously.

She bathed slowly, cleaning and taking care of herself. The smell, grime, and bits that came off of her were horrifying. When the bath water had become too dirty, she was not yet as clean as she would have liked. She washed her hands thoroughly up to her elbows in the bathhouse basin after she had bound herself again and dressed in fresh clothes, put her previous set of clothes in to be washed for the marrow, and asked for her tub to be emptied, cleaned, and filled again with fresh hot water again while she took her meal. The innkeeper made a bluster about the hassle, so she put a shiny silver in his hand. It was more than enough, but she did not want to exert herself arguing.

While the servants set to that, she sat down to eat, and was served a respectably full trencher. Alyce savored the meal; it was spicier than she was accustomed to, but she liked that. Then, alone in her room, she bathed again, and thoroughly.

 _If I have caught the bloody flux from my little swim, I will die alone and in failure._

She thought about her situation as she bound her bloody fingers gently and brushed out her mouth. She was in Queen Daenerys' captured city. She had slipped into a city under siege. But she had the feeling that the effort it would cost her to find the answers to her questions had hardly yet begun.

…

Alyce had been watching the Great Pyramid of Meereen all day.

As many of its ins and outs as she could observe she saw, though that was nowhere near all of them. The Pyramid was enormous, and it took her an hour to walk entirely around it all.

She did not know what to do.

Obviously force was out of the question. The Pyramid was guarded by legions of Unsullied, some of the best fighters in the world. They felt little pain and were excellently trained. Sneaking was absurd to consider, as well. Guards patrolled, more numerous than ants around a nest. So she needed to be clever.

Simply asking for audience might gain the ear of at least someone who has the ear of the queen, but then again it might not, and it would take a deal of time. She did not know if Daenerys was even providing avenues for a common person to hold audience with her. All those that entered the palace were likely questioned and checked by captains of the Unsullied, and even after their entrance, they likely were escorted and guarded at all times.

Finding someone to carry a message for her seemed the best hope. She had written three of the same letter—one in the Common Tongue, one in Pentoshi, and one in High Valyrian—mentioning the necessity for an audience with the queen about the Lannisters and Ser Jorah Mormont. She hoped the name-dropping would prompt whoever got hold of the letters to get them to the queen. In the letters, she mentioned where she was staying and that she would be watching the Pyramid for a response.

But as she stalked the Pyramid until the fall of night, looking for the best person to carry her letters, the Unsullied were a step ahead of her.

A group of four of them cornered her outside against a stone stable. Seeing only two of them at first and thinking to break away and make a run, Alyce put up a fight. But they were soon joined by two others and she was almost easily overpowered. Before they could break any of her limbs, she dropped her sword and raised arms in surrender, her nose leaking blood and the beating by a truncheon she had been dealt stinging like mad. They gave her another terrible blow to the legs to assure she would not try to run again, removed her of her sword belt, and dragged her across the street and into the Pyramid.

They brought her into a stone room lit by poorly-smelling tallow lamps. Two other Unsullied were inside, speaking in Meereenese. One solider guarded a filthy man against one wall.

Alyce wished her Meereenese was better. She only understood about every fifth word as the soldiers who had her spoke to the others. The Unsullied all looked the same to her, but the one who was apparently ranked highest in the room was nodding and ordered something. The soldiers immediately yanked her pack from her and began going through it.

"I have necessary news for the Queen Daenerys Targaryen," Alyce announced in clear and loud Pentoshi. _Anything to get me heard_. "It is life or death. The queen will want to hear what I have to tell her. There are letters in the pack. The letters must get to the queen."

They seemed to be ignoring her. _What if they can only barely understand Pentoshi?_ She tried in what she knew of Meereenese, but her efforts were almost unintelligible. That received her glances, but that was all. The extensive weaponry, books, and soldier's uniform they found inside her pack made their buzzing language take on an angry, more urgent tone. _I should have thrown that bloody uniform away, but I thought it might be useful again later._ She cursed herself for a fool.

The leader gave an order, and she and her belongings were seized again to be removed from the room. Alyce made a grab for the letters and tried to shove them in the leader's face before they seized her.

" _For Queen Daenerys_!" she shouted desperately in poor Meereenese. The solider took them from her in reflex, also going for his sword with his other hand, and then Alyce was forced brutally from the room.

On their way down to the cells, she attempted to escape at times, but received only more bruises from their truncheons, and the pain became so intense and dizzying that she had to be dragged.

The cells were not as terrible as they could have been. She had hope that they were only holding cells, because more stairs continued downward from the level they had brought her to. The Unsullied soldiers handed her off to the cell guards and left. Alyce wished they had stayed. These guards were not Unsullied and by the looks of them, far less respectable.

Businesslike, keeping a tight hold on her so she could not struggle, they found a sack and began to strip her of her cloak and clothes, stuffing her belongings into it. She dreaded the moment they would realize what they had in her.

She kept her expression carefully blank when they stripped her of her last undershirt and there were exclamations when the men beheld her bound breasts. She betrayed no anger or fear. Some men found those emotions to be sexual stimuli. Apathy—nonreaction—was the best discouragement. The guards fully could not focus on anything but their own shock and delight for a full minute, and meanwhile the cells around them had erupted into mayhem. Alyce did not need to speak Meereenese to understand what the prisoners surrounding her were yelling.

Finally the guards seemed to remember some semblance of their job. They removed her of the small knife she kept hidden in a band and sheath on her left arm, as well as the knife hidden at the small of her back. She could not help but wince as this happened. She felt truly naked without them, even though she was still half-clothed. There was a very brief conversation, and then she and her things were marched to a different section of the cells. This one was a great deal smaller and in fact only contained six cells and only one occupant—a truly terrifying-looking woman with an inked face, red, puffy eyes, and extraordinarily long fingernails.

The soldiers continued stripping her. They sliced through the binds on Alyce's breasts with a sort of hurrah and she held in her noise of pain. They began speaking to her—some in taunts, some in coos—but her expression replied to them in no way. Rough hands fondled her terribly sore breasts and she pressed her jaw together as hard as she could to keep from screaming with the pain of it and the fury burning like acid in her blood.

They stripped her of her pants and underclothes, and then jammed hands into her groin under the pretense of searching her. Dirty fingernails jammed themselves into both her entrance and her backside. Rough, scratchy fingertips fondled the lips at her entrance, the man's eyebrows wiggling as if he expected her to enjoy it. The guard that had jammed a finger into her entrance sniffed it in front of her face with a grin.

If she kept herself carefully apathetic, she would be raped. If she fought, she would be beaten half to death and _then_ raped.

She wondered if the Meereenese were a suspicious lot.

She began to rasp in a measured tone, " _By sky and ink and rooster oil, by moon, by stars, and dry, dead soil, I curse their blood, I curse their blood, I curse their blood_." She chanted rhyming nonsense, eyes dead, hoping enough of her Pentoshi would be understandable to these Meereenese. Many of their verbs had the same stems—all branching from Valyrian. She could see it working; their grip on her lessened, their eyes widening.

" _I curse their babes to die in blood, I curse their wives to die by flood, I curse the sky rain only death, I curse their very foul breath…_ "

They were shoving her with their spears into a cell, shouting things in Meereenese. Alyce kept her chant going while they threw a sack in at her, locked her in, and fled.

She ceased the moment they had left, satisfied, and investigated what they had thrown in at her. It was a sort of long, scratchy overshirt for her to wear. _At least I won't be remaining naked._ Just the movements needs to shrug it over her head and pull it around her proved agonizing, and he hissed in pain as she tugged it on and them limped toward the wall to sit.

 _Damn the Unsullied to all the seven hells. Too observant by half_.

No doubt they had noticed her skulking around the Pyramid and found her to be too suspicious. The city was on high alert due to the increasingly common attacks by the Sons of the Harpy.

Alyce investigated herself, taking stock of all her bruises and wounds. _At least I am relatively clean…_ Without her pack, she had no way to doctor herself if she should need it.

The loss of her weapons felt a much acuter crime than their probing fingers had been. _My knives_.

She stretched out on the dirty stone, cupping her aching breasts to baby them, and ignoring the curious eyes of the other woman two cells over.

She thought hard about what she would say to any of the queen's men if she should ever get the chance to talk herself out of this mess.

…


	21. VII: Underestimated

…

VII.

Underestimated

 **D** ays passed in relative uneventfulness.

Alyce was served warm porridge in the morning and warm stew about midday. It was not three meals, but it was hearty enough. Her bruises turned from red to blue to purple to greenish yellow. She did exercises, using the bars and the floor.

The guards did not trouble her after her little chanting show, nor did they trouble her cell block mate, even though the woman lifted her shift and fondled herself until she moaned several times a day. Sometimes the woman stared directly at Alyce when she did this, and Alyce always watched her in return, finding her antics far more interesting than staring at a wall.

Every time guards came in to check on them, empty their chamber pots, or bring them meals, Alyce repeated herself about wishing to speak to the queen and having important information for her in as many languages and in as many different ways as she could think of. She was ignored.

The cells were dusty from the wearing of their old stones, and the dust gave Alyce a cough and caused her eyes to redden and grow puffy. She worried over showing signs of the bloody flux, and her slight cough and sore throat gave her anxiety, but she had no cramps and her stool remained as solid as could be wished.

On the eighth day of her imprisonment, in the morning, a living legend came and stood outside her cell.

Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold was arrayed in full armor, though he no longer wore the white cloak that had distinguished him in King's Landing. He looked his age in his face, but not in his body. He was still tall, hard, and strong, despite the stark white of his hair, and his notoriously sad blue eyes seemed as sharp as Alyce imagined they had always been.

Ser Barristan had been knighted at sixteen by King Aegon the Fifth, sole champion of Lord Steffon's tourney at Storm's End, where he unhorsed even Robert Baratheon and Prince Rhaegar. He had been Kingsguard to three kings, and in King's Landing he was still spoken of in the same reverent tones the smallfolk used for Serwyn of the Mirror Shield and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight.

Alyce herself was not immune to this reverence. Upon sight of the man, she scrambled up from her position sitting against the back cell wall and could not find her voice for a moment. She greeted in a hoarse voice, "Ser Barristan," bowing her head in respect.

He surveyed her, his mouth hard with displeasure.

"You wrote a note for the queen. In Valyrian." He held up one of her letters. It was crumpled slightly and dirty. "The contents surprised and interested Her Grace."

 _How much to tell? How much to lie about?_

Some of the secrets she owned were not hers to give away.

"Ser, I mean the queen no harm. Illyrio Mopatis send me to protect someone he was sending to her to help her. But in Selhorys, Ser Jorah Mormont came upon us, left me for dead, and took my charge with him. It is my belief he would take him to Queen Daenerys. All I want is to know whether or not Mormont is here with my charge. If they have not arrived, I ask only that I be allowed to wait outside the Pyramid to wait for them. I do not wish to bother or inconvenience the queen. Truly, I was sent here to help, as was the man Ser Jorah took captive."

Barristan had listened to her in silence, which she had appreciated. But he asked the obvious question—the question she dreaded. "Who is your charge?"

Alyce deflated slightly. "When I tell you, ser, you will make a quick and erroneous assumption about where his loyalties lie and decide he could not possibly be of help to your queen and that perhaps it would be best if I stayed in my cell. But you would be incorrect, ser." Her voice sounded weary, even to her own ears.

"Name him."

Alyce winced. She sighed quietly and replied in a low voice meant only for his ear. "Lord Tyrion Lannister, ser."

Ser Barristan's expression hardened, as she had known it would, but to a lesser degree than she had expected, and there seemed to be interest in his eyes.

She attempted to explain. "He has no loyalty to his family, ser. They framed him for King Joffery's murder which he did not commit. Both his father and his sister wanted him dead. It is true that he slew Lord Tywin with a crossbow, I will not deny that, but I have seen kindness in him, ser, and he knows much and more of dragons. Perhaps more than anyone alive. He knows the court in King's Landing. He wants to help the queen."

"Enough." Ser Barristan motioned to one of the guards waiting down the stone corridor from them at the door. The man produced keys and unlocked her cell. Alyce stood, rubbing her dirty, bare arms, and wondering if she was being taken to the queen or to the gallows.

Selmy returned with Unsullied knights at his shoulders. The Unsullied moved forward with rope in the hands for her wrists.

Alyce moved back from them and said quickly, directing her words to Ser Barristan, "If I'm to be hanged, tell me now so I may have the choice to fight for my life with my own hands. To die by your sword, ser, would be a death I could be proud of."

There was a small touch of amusement in the old knight's eyes. "You are not to be sentenced as of yet."

Hearing this, Alyce relented, and allowed her hands to be bound. Ser Barristan was one of the last knights of true steel. His word could be trusted.

"Ser, I know I may not have them now, but my weapons—my sword, my knives—to me, they aren't replaceable. If by grace I am allowed to leave the Pyramid, I shan't survive without them."

The humor had left Barristan's eyes. "The queen will decide what is to be done with you and your weapons."

 _I am to meet the dragon queen, then._ She felt a thrill of nervous anticipation. _The woman they call the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, Stormborn. One who was a_ khaleesi _of the Dothraki. Sister to Prince Rhaegar and daughter of the Mad King._

They offered her no clothes; it seemed she would be presented to the queen as she was—dirty and naked but for her scratchy shift. _I would make a far more convincing and appealing sight in clothes and clean. I would be taken more seriously._ She resented this.

"Naked and dirty—this is not who I am, ser." Alyce drew herself up as much as she could between two soldiers who had her by the arms. Her blue eyes flashed at him. "Am I to be presented to a queen in such a state?"

"You are not naked."

 _Implacable man._ Alyce kept back a scowl.

The sound of running all at once reached their ears, perhaps a floor above them. Then a thump.

Barristan immediately knew something was amiss. He thundered to the soldiers, "To the queen— _now_!"

Then they were running down a stone corridor. They turned a corner and passed a soldier sprawled, bloody on the floor without stopping. Lamps had been smashed in the corridor they entered, and the only light coming through the thick stone of the pyramid came from a long, very narrow window at the end of the hall. Near that window, silhouetted shapes were fighting in close quarters. Five of them had on harpy masks and the rest were soldiers. Ser Barristan drew and charged with the two soldiers, leaving Alyce forgotten.

 _Seven bloody hells._

She ran after the soldiers, and kicked at one of the Sons of the Harpy to help one of the Unsullied overpower him. Ser Barristan was fighting three at once. Alyce evaded the swing of one of the Sons' curved swords and slipped backwards away from the fight. _I need my hands._ Grimacing at the fierce pain, she began pulling her hands out of the ropes around her wrists, scraping off skin in the process. Even as her brain screamed in protest, she exerted a calm discipline over herself and pulled, bruising her joints, leaving searing pain and raw meat where her skin had been in the wake of the ropes. Hot blood ran down over her fingers and palms as she ropes fell.

Alyce launched herself into the fight. She evaded their curved blades and used her deadly hands to break noses and her swift, expert kicks to break kneecaps and the tops of feet. Droplets of blood flew madly from her knuckles. The first Son she overpowered, she bashed his head into the wall and took his curved sword. One of the Unsullied soldiers had been wounded, but now armed, she helped the other solider and Barristan dispatch two more. The last went running, and the unhurt Unsullied gave chase. Barristan's armor was scraped, but he was unharmed.

"I left my first only unconscious in case you want him questioned," Alyce panted. Unbidden, she offered the sword up to the knight, gripping the blade between her fingers so he could grasp the cloth-bound hilt. Barristan took it, his eyes lingering on her bloody hands, but they did not linger long.

"Follow." He took off.

"But the Son that I left—"

"The queen first."

They raced down corridors. They halted beside a heavily bolted door, panting.

"It is Ser Barristan!" the knight thundered. The door opened. "Stop her," he ordered, and Unsullied took hold of Alyce directly after she entered. Barristan was ordering Unsullied to go out and gather up the man Alyce had left unconscious, and after they left, the door slammed and bolted behind her.

Alyce did not notice much of that, however.

She was in the same room as Queen Daenerys Targaryen.

The room was small—a reinforced hideout, not a room of magnificence. Barristan was making sure the queen was unhurt. She looked unhurt. She looked…radiant. Alyce could only stare at her.

The queen was far younger than Alyce had been picturing. Even though she knew the girl was only fifteen or sixteen, she had not expected her to look it. The girl was youthful, strikingly lovely, and held a fierceness in her purple eyes. Her hair was long, and so fine and fair it was closer to silver than to blonde. She was in a blue and silver dress that fanned at the shoulders, making her look more powerful than her small, slim frame truly was. Gold encircled her neck, but she wore no crown. Instead some of her silvery hair was braided in intricate ways, giving her a sort of natural queenly circlet.

She had an air of coolness and composure about her, and those purple eyes missed nothing. They had not missed her. Alyce found herself gaze-to-gaze with the Mother of Dragons as her hands dribbled blood onto her stone floor.

"Ser Barristan, who is this?" the queen asked, gesturing with a slight incline of her head.

"One of our prisoners, Your Grace. I was bringing her to the throne room when we heard part of the attack. She can wait."

It seemed she could.

Queen Daenerys, Barristan, and her other advisors spoke at the far side of the room in low voices Alyce could not catch, while she herself stood prisoner, dirty, bleeding, and half-naked, amidst a wall of Unsullied.

Unsullied came and went, delivering scraps of information. Food and water were also delivered. Alyce was thirsty, but none of it was offered her. Finally it seemed decisions had been made. The queen rose to leave.

"If you are to question this one, I request that Unsullied remain with us," Alyce heard Barristan say to the queen.

Queen Daenerys looked uninterested. "Is she dangerous?" Her purple eyes were on her again. Alyce met her eyes. She saw the queen glance at her bloody, dripping hands.

"I believe she has some skill with weapons, Your Grace."

"Who is she?"

"The writer of the Valyrian letter."

Finally, the young queen gave Alyce her full attention. Daenerys walked toward her, and Ser Barristan walked with her, protective, with suspicion carved into every crease of his body.

Alyce bowed her head as she approached.

The queen addressed her in High Valyrian. "I mistook your script for a man's," she commented, testing her.

Alyce's fluency was not as eloquent as the queen's, but it was good enough. "Your guards mistook me for a man as well. Easy to do, I suppose."

The queen looked pleased to hear the tongue. Ser Barristan leaned toward her. "According to the guards, she was dressed as a man, with her breasts bound."

Queen Daenerys' face gave away no hint of what she was thinking. "Bring her to my rooms, Ser Barristan, along with whatever guard you feel necessary. Bathe and clothe her first, and see to her hands as a thanks for her assistance in that fight."

"Yes, Your Grace."

While the queen departed with an enormous retinue of guards, Ser Barristan personally oversaw Alyce's bathing and dressing. Alyce scrubbed her bloody scrapes from the ropes with her teeth clenched. The cloth she bound them with after drying herself quickly showed the stain of blood through the material.

Servants had arrayed some clothes for her while she had bathed. Alyce inspected them, and was disappointed not to find her own clothes, but she was gratified to see pants and shirts as well as a dress arrayed for her selection. The Meereenese did not wear heavy fabrics due to the heat, but there was a pair of brown pants in airy fabric that came only down slightly past her knees. She pulled those on, along with the first brassiere she had been able to wear in ages, and a light linen shirt that was a touch too big for her, but she belted it at her waist. She still felt naked without weapons, but she knew she looked a great deal better than she had before.

She hand a hand through her thick, short hair to help it dry and glanced at Ser Barristan. The man's eyes were on her hair…and her eyes. He looked like someone who recognized something, but could not quite place from where. Alyce knew what he was seeing in her, and she quickly averted her eyes. If Ser Barristan Selmy guessed her parentage as Tyrion had done, things would only go poorly for her. Robert's Rebellion had taken everything from Queen Daenerys' family. Alyce's sire was the reason the queen's brother, father, sister-in-law, and niece were dead.

She and Barristan were escorted by Unsullied to the queen's suites, and the Unsullied did not leave; they remained near in protection of their queen.

Queen Daenerys was lounging on a divan of lavender silk. Before her sat a tray of fruits and exotic bits of food. Alyce's mouth watered and her stomach growled loudly enough for Ser Barristan standing beside her to hear.

Small handmaidens of different odd sorts stood behind the queen. Unsullied stood to her left and right, slightly forward. There was no one directly between them, but still there was a barrier. Alyce did not move to draw nearer to the queen to sit down. She stood, waiting.

"Ser Barristan has told me of you," Queen Daenerys told her in Valyrian. She spoke as one born to it, but then, it was the language of her family and all dragonlords, so that was to be expected. "Your letter was exaggeration. You have no real information for me."

"I exaggerated in order to be heard, Your Grace," Alyce replied in the same tongue. "It is not my wish to intrude. I came only to find the man I swore to protect. If he is not here, there is no reason for me to be. I only came to you hoping to find him."

The queen weighed this for a moment. She said, switching into the Common Tongue, "I have never met a female bodyguard."

"Well, I have lost my charge, so I suppose I do not serve as a recommendation for them."

The queen smiled slightly at her small jape. Alyce cleared her throat, trying to get the hoarseness out of her voice.

"Give her some water," Daenerys said.

To her left, water from a pitcher was poured into a glass and handed to Alyce. Her fist closed around the glass and she drank in in thirsty gulps. _For all their protections, their queen is not safe. She should have crossbows trained on me_. She handed the glass back. It was refilled and given to her again. _Ser Barristan does not realize quite how quick or how dangerous I am, or he would have a wall of Unsullied between me and his queen._

She was a woman. Ser Barristan Selmy had spent a life protecting women, as knights swear to do, not fearing them.

 _Always underestimated_.

She handed the glass back again and the queen spoke.

"You are Westerosi and you claim to protect a man whose family ripped mine down from the Iron Throne—whose brother murdered my father despite swearing an oath to protect him—whose brother-in-law has sent assassins after me. You mention having met Ser Jorah Mormont, whom I banished from my service after discovering he was one of the Usurper's spies. So I can only assume you have approached my Pyramid to die. Is that so? My Ser Barristan has a sure arm, and he will oblige you."

Alyce was pinching the bridge of her nose in between her right forefinger and thumb.

"You have little reason to trust me, Your Grace," she said slowly. "And if you think those things are enough reason to kill me, it will be done. I beg you not to toy with me. Since Lord Tyrion and his captor do not appear to be here with you, all I ask is to be allowed to leave your Pyramid. Only to be allowed to leave."

The queen sat back against her divan. "If you believe them to be coming to me, you would remain in Meereen."

"Yes," Alyce said in a low voice. "What other choice do I have? Mormont stole Lord Tyrion out from under me, and the only clues I have suggest he would be coming here to you. I have fought off pirates and stone men to protect him, crossed hundreds of leagues, and rescued him from drowning, only to fail because of this Bear Island knight." She was scowling. "All of this in an effort to get to _you_. To help _you_. So whatever you wish to have done with me, be done with it. Your Grace."

The Unsullied stirred menacingly, irritated with her tone.

Daenerys looked unmoved. Alyce was impressed by her inscrutable face. _This one is not her father's daughter. She has the coolness of her brother Rhaegar._ Beautiful, composed, perhaps even clever… _Yes, I can see why Mormont fell in love with her. These Targaryens are too charming by half. Her and her nephew Aegon both. They inspire protectiveness._

"You say you and this Lannister were travelling to me on your own," said the queen. "But how did you expect your reception to be different than mine to you now?"

"We were traveling with others who carried letters and proofs—and who also would have been a help to Your Grace," Alyce sighed. "All of that would have helped to convince you. But we were separated. The road from Pentos to Meereen is long."

Daenerys said nothing. Her eyes traveled over Alyce briefly, and what she saw took some of the hardness out of her gaze. Alyce knew what she was seeing: a woman, thin, with puffy red eyes and wounds on her knuckles dressed in common clothes. Someone who could use a measure of pity. The notion grated against Alyce's pride.

The little queen said, "Have some fruit if you are hungry."

Alyce glanced at the platters near the queen. "Your Grace…" She pinched the bridge of her nose again and closed her eyes briefly; she was weary from blood loss and hunger. _I shall be able to say that I have given advice to two Targaryen heirs now. How many bastards from King's Landing have ever been able to say the same?_ "I am grateful for the offer. But Your Grace, you should not allow a stranger that close to your person, even if they are a woman."

Queen Daenerys stared at her. Doubtless she felt perfectly safe, surrounded by her Unsullied with her great knight in the room, eyeing down a female peasant captive.

"Am I in danger from you?" she asked coolly.

"No, Your Grace, but…in the future…"

"In the future I should be more careful? Is that what you are presuming to counsel me?"

Alyce put her eyes to the ceiling and closed them briefly. _I'm likely never getting out of here alive, anyway. Blow it all to the seven hells._ She eyed the silver queen again. "Yes, that is what I am presuming to counsel you."

Instead of enraged, the queen seemed faintly amused. As if a child were giving her advice. She obviously did not believe Alyce to be as dangerous as she implied. The queen was likely the most dangerous woman she herself knew.

 _In her world, woman are handmaidens and servants. Wives and daughters. Not soldiers. Not killers._

"Show me," she commanded lightly, right at the edge of being condescending.

"Your Grace?"

"Show me how you would get to me."

"Your Grace," came Ser Barristan's cautioning voice. The queen waved him off, but as she was waving and all eyes were on her, Alyce had sprung forward into motion. She darted past the two Unsullied to the queen's left and the two Unsullied to her right, jabbing the closest one viciously in the throat as she sprang past, and, in the same rush of movement, swiped up a wine glass in her hand. Its contents she flung into the faces and eyes of the handmaidens behind the queen.

That had all happened before most could react, but then there was a great roar. A thrown spear gouged across her calf as she was moving, shattering the wine glass on the edge of the short table as they came at her. The pain blazed white-hot, but she was yanking the queen's silvery hair to wrench her head back and putting the glass to the girl's soft throat.

All movement stopped like some sort of magic spell.

She queen's hands were on her, but the girl was nowhere near physically strong enough to move her attacker. Alyce's arms were hard as stone from swordplay and labor. The handmaidens whimpered, half-blind from the wine in their eyes, and too afraid to move lest their queen's throat be sliced open.

Alyce leaned slightly over very swiftly to kiss the queen's fair temple before she moved the glass away from her throat, throwing it so that it shattered loudly against the hard tile floor.

All was still. The faces around her were deeply shocked; no one knew what to do.

Alyce bowed to the great dragon queen with a bit of a mummer's flourish as handsomely as she could with a chuck of flesh from her calf missing. The blood was gushing thickly down over her ankle and pooling darkly on the tile.

"Might someone call for a maester?" she asked the room at large, before dropping herself on a divan and promptly losing consciousness.

…


	22. VIII: The Poorest Cripples

…

VIII.

The Poorest Cripples

 **A** lyce woke in a well-appointed room with guards at attendance and her calf wound throbbing with ferocious pain. She sat up and wrenched off the gauze.

" _Fuck_ ," she snarled basely in the Common Tongue. She raised her hoarse voice to bellow at the top of her lungs. " _Where is the bloody healer who did this?! Get me my pack! Get me boiled water!_ " She knew what happened to wounds that went bad. _It's too wide to stich. This needs special handling or it will grow angry and begin to poison me._

Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, threw open the door separating the room she was in from the room in which her wounded captive was shouting.

"Quiet yourself," she commanded, icy.

"Your Grace, my wound has not been properly seen to."

"My best healer saw to it."

"Your best healer should be flogged." Alyce made eye contact with one of the guards, pointing demandingly. "You there. I need boiled water, spirits, honey if you have it, the sharpest and smallest knife you can find, and more fresh gauze than you can carry alone. _Go_."

The guard looked to Daenerys. The queen's mouth was drawn into an vexed line and there was a tense moment in which sweat beaded on Alyce's skin. At length, she nodded. "Do as she has said."

The guard left.

The young dragon trained her hard gaze on Alyce. "Keep watch of your tongue or _lose_ it to one of my Unsullied."

Now that Alyce's immediate needs were being acted upon, her bold rashness was gone. She bowed her head and replied quietly, "Yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace."

The queen said nothing more, and Alyce peeled back her gauze further, biting her lip. She was missing a mercifully shallow but _wide_ chunk of flesh from the side of her calf. Her dried blood was caked in the wound, but it was still seeping blood and clear fluid. It did not have angry colors yet, but… Her head swam.

"What is wrong with what was done?" the queen asked sharply, watching Alyce gaze at her leg.

"If this is not cleaned properly, it will fester, poison me, and I will take fever and die," she told her frankly. She could hear the fear in her own voice. Hearing it too made Daenerys' expression change slightly.

"How would you clean it?" she asked.

"I must needs cut away the bits that are dead here, and here." She pointed. "Then it needs to be washed gently with boiled water, spirits, and honey. Then packed with gauze. I must unpack it, wash it, and rebandage thrice a day. Then it must heal from the bottom and top inward. If it heals too fast another way, that can cause problems as well." Alyce wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. The skin of her face was bloodless and damp. "I have tools in my pack. It was taken from me when I was brought to the cells."

Her head ached terribly, and she brought a hand to it. "Your Grace…I need to eat something."

Boots clunked through Daenerys' room from the hall and then in through the open door. Ser Barristan walked up to them, eyeing Alyce. He said nothing, but she saw the dislike in his hard blue eyes. _This one was not pleased by my gambling show. And not surprisingly…it showed he would have failed to protect his queen._

The knight whispered something in the queen's ear. She nodded.

"I will attend to it," Daenerys murmured. "Do you know where the _imoa kijakthi'_ s pack might be?"

Barristan nodded once. "In the storage of the women's cells."

"It shall be given back to her."

Ser Barristan seemed as if he would have liked to have argued against this, but he did not question his queen. He merely nodded. Daenerys left them.

"What is that she called me?" Alyce asked him, grunting as she readjusted on the bed. Her head felt light and faint. The words had been Meereenese nouns, and unfamiliar to her.

"It is what the Unsullied have been calling you," Barristan replied without warmth. "It means Kissing Snake."

As far as titles went, it was not a poor one.

"My name is Alyce."

A servant came in with a platter of some sort of roast bird surrounded by sliced fruit and placed it near her. She immediately attacked it with a groan.

When she had gulped down a few bites, she drank some water and wiped her hands, trying to focus on the kingly knight watching her.

"Ser Barristan…" she began. She looked away, feeling half a girl. "I grew up hearing tales of your steel. In any other circumstances… What I am trying to say is that I wish I had not had to do such a thing in front of you and to your own sworn queen… I feel as if I have just used a chamber pot in front of Serwyn of the Mirror Shield or something of the like."

She swallowed. Her head hurt. She felt dizzy. "Forgive me, ser. I am not trying to involve myself in all this. I did what I felt I had to do. I thought I might be killed no matter what. This isn't what I want. Being here isn't what I want. It's not for me. I don't have a part in these songs. All I want is to find Lord Tyrion and keep him safe. I've done a poor job of it so far." She scrubbed at her wan face with a hand. "I only want a chance to fix that."

He didn't seem like to reply, and just then the guard returned with her requests. As Alyce busied herself with what he brought, Ser Barristan dispatched him to go and fetch her pack with all her belongings. Barristan watched closely as Alyce rolled up a cloth and placed it between her jaws, cleaned her hands and the knife with the spirits, then, with tears of pain streaming down her face and groans of agony sliding muffled through her jaws, sliced off the bits of useless dead skin and muscle around her wound with the small, sharp knife. At times she had to steady herself with deep breaths before she could continue. Her face was a pallid sheen of sweat.

She took a brief break after finishing, gasping with pain, then, over a shallow basin where her blood, fluid, and water could drip down, began gently washing her gaping wound with the boiled water mixed with grain and honey. She clenched her jaw, making smothered noises of pain she tried to bite back down. She dried the seeping wound best she could with gauze, then packed more in the wound, wrapping it a couple times.

Queen Daenerys entered again as she was packing and wrapping it, her handmaidens in tow. The little exotic girls gave Alyce looks of loathing, but Alyce ignored them. When she was done attending to herself, she collapsed back on the bed with a groan, white, sweat-soaked, and trembling with pain. They gave her a while to rest, during which she both ate the rest of the platter of bird and fruit and tried to move as little as possible.

She took stock of herself. _I am eating and drinking within Queen Daenerys Targaryen's private suites and I will soon have my weapons again._ Luck and the fates were with her, so long as her wound did not fester and she did not die of the loss of blood. Whether or not the queen would let her out of this damnable pyramid was another matter, but she supposed she could wait for Tyrion and Mormont just as well from inside the place as from without.

 _This wound will take a long time to heal. There will be weeks before I can walk again. Perhaps months._ The idea of that was disturbing.

When Daenerys and Ser Barristan again returned to her bedside, Ser Barristan was toting wooden chairs and only two of the hoard of handmaidens were at the queen's back. They all sat themselves beside her bed, their eyes hard.

Barristan spoke. "Whether it is fact or a pretty web of fiction, the queen would hear your story," he said in a level voice that betrayed nothing.

Alyce was afraid for herself again. She considered reaching for lies, but…the risk was too great.

It was a time for truth now.

"I would ask not to be interrupted," Alyce murmured in a low voice, "no matter how absurd or false you might believe the things I tell you."

They all scowled at her. The queen looked displeased and disappointed somehow, as if she had hoped that everything Alyce would tell her would make sense—would be like missing puzzle pieces. Daenerys nodded coolly.

"Speak."

"The first thing you need to know, and I understand why will not believe it…is that Lord Varys' loyalty is to you, not to the Lannisters." Both Barristan's and his queen's eyes narrowed considerably, and they shifted their weight, angry she would be trying to feed them such grotesque lies. _A good beginning…_

"He and Illyrio Mopatis are very old friends. They grew up together in Braavos. I am not exactly telling you that Lord Varys is a Targaryen loyalist. That is not the truth. They say the ruler of the people should want what's best for the people… If this is so, Lord Varys should be the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. He has always worked to help the common people. King Aerys…I am sorry to say this, Your Grace, but King Aerys was a vicious ruler, and insane as well. He was not good for the realm, and so Lord Varys helped depose him. He has helped keep the king's peace for years, but then King Robert began to be unsuited to the throne. He was a drunkard, and the child set to inherit the crown was a vicious little boy.

"This child, Joffery Baratheon by name, was in truth not a Baratheon. He was the bastard son of Cersei and her brother Jaime Lannister. By laws, neither he nor any of his siblings have any right to the throne. Lord Varys saw Robert growing more unfit to rule by the day, and he and Illyrio began turning the wheels that would bring a more worthy ruler to Westeros.

"Lord Stark was noble, but blind, and was killed early. His son was killed as well, as was Robert's brother Renly, who might have made a decent king. Robert's brother Stannis is not well-loved by the people. The Greyjoy King was killed before he even had much of a rebellion, and the Dornish prince is elderly and sluggish.

"Who is left? Joffrey's brother Tommen is only a small child, sweet and easily manipulated, but protecting him is his fiend of a mother, so he would not do. You, Your Grace, have a stronger claim than Tommen, are better loved than Stannis, and carry a family name that will stir passion in the Kingdoms. Once Varys heard from Illyio of your strength and your kindness, the two decided upon you.

"Illyrio guided you to Khal Drogo to give you power and autonomy from your brother. He did not expect everything that has happened to happen…but both are still trying to help you. I was sent from King's Landing to protect Tyrion, who Varys was also sending to help you, among many others. Lord Tyrion did not have any idea where he was going until Illyrio persuaded him in Pentos to join your cause. He has no more ties to those in the Seven Kingdoms—his family tried numerous times to kill him and betrayed him in a thousand small ways. But Tyrion knows more than any man alive about dragons. How to train them, how to doctor them, how to ride them. All their lore and stories, he had studied. He is clever and kind, despite his family name. The world has always been cruel to him, and so he has grown bitter and hopeless, but it has also made him value kindness. He could help you a great deal, and he needs a cause to believe in.

"I am not suggesting to you that you should trust in Lord Varys. As I've said, his loyalty is to the good of the people as he sees it, not to any individual. He may turn on you or on anyone. Even I, who Varys saved from a life in the gutters, do not entirely trust him."

She explained Varys' protection of her and the training he gave to her. She described the things she had done for him in the past. When her voice grew hoarse, she drank water to strengthen it again. She described traveling to Pentos on Varys' order to meet Illyrio. Some secrets were not hers to divulge, however. She said nothing about Prince Aegon, and only sketched her companions in vague description, making it sound as if there were more than there were, and that they were more important.

She described the journey, the pirates, the river, the Bridge of Sorrow. Pulling Tyrion out, scrubbing for greyscale, and losing him to Mormont in Selhorys. When she came to the end of that scene and was about to move on, she hesitated.

"There are things I wish to tell you about this, Your Grace, that involve why I guessed that Mormont would be coming here, that are rather…indelicate," she told the queen.

"Say what you will," Daenerys replied.

"My friend spoke to the whores in the brothel, asking after the knight and what they might know of where he might have gone. They told her that Mormont had asked for a very specific woman…a woman of long blonde hair and Westerosi features."

Daenerys was trying to keep her expression impassive, but a flicker of some sort of emotion passed through it like a heat wave.

Alyce continued, "He had been offered a great reward in the Kingdoms. All his lands and titles back. He knew this. But he was not going back. Instead he was wallowing in a whorehouse with woman who looks—"

"That's enough." Daenerys' voice was soft but it silenced Alyce.

She nodded once, and then began again, "That is why I guessed he would be coming here. He would want to bring Lord Tyrion to you to try to win back your favor."

Daenerys said nothing. Alyce continued her story. She told them that her defeat and stint of unconsciousness in Selhorys was where she had lost her companions, and that she had had to cut her hair, doctor her clothes, and make it to the companies all on her own. She described traveling as a sellsword, ditching the Company, and struggling her way into Meereen. She described everything until the guards shoved her in her cell.

True to their words, neither the queen nor Ser Barristan interrupted her. When she had finished, she let herself sink back down onto the bed with a groan.

"That is everything."

Barristan looked as though he wished to question her more, but the queen rose. "Ser Barristan," she said, and led him away to council privately with him. The doors closed behind them and Alyce was alone.

A servant came in and dropped her pack beside her bed. It clanked, heavy with weapons. Her sword was placed on the rug beside it.

She smiled before sleep claimed her.

…

"You almost killed one of my Unsullied."

"One of your Unsullied almost killed _me_."

Alyce had kept the lighter clothes she had been given, but she had belted on her swordbelt and knives. Her wounded lower leg was propped up on cushions, freshly washed, packed, and wrapped. Her room appeared to be a sitting room attached to Daenerys' grand bedchamber suites; the door between them could be locked and bolted, and often it was, but at times it was opened, and Daenerys visited her for brief stints to prod at her with questions—usually about Westeros. Silk draperies of many colors fluttered and wafted in the arid breeze that drifted in the wide windows.

The queen crossed her arms, standing at her bedside, and Alyce added, "I knew the jab wouldn't kill him. Only take away his breathing for half a minute."

"You did it with your fingers."

She sounded as if she wanted to be shown. Alyce obliged. She stiffened the main fingers of her right hand, the scabs on her knuckles cracking as she did so.

"You stiffen your fingers and jab at the windpipe—hard—like you're aiming for behind the throat. It sends a sort of shock into the muscles. Too hard and they may die from it."

"Have you killed men before in this way?"

Alyce shook her head. "Usually I can't jab hard enough to kill that way, and anyway, the panic of losing the ability to breathe can make people thrash. It's easier to let the wall or the floor do the work for you—to bash your enemy's head. Or to deliver a blow to dizzy them and then give a blood choke."

"A blood choke?"

"Aye. When you strangle a man, you're cutting off their air, but they're slow to die that way, and it takes more strength— _and_ you may have to hold the choke for three or four minutes to make sure of death. A properly done blood choke takes less strength and is a deal quicker." She ran her fingers down the indents to both the left and the right of her throat. "This is where the blood flows. You pinch their neck in the crook of your elbow from behind, and then fasten that arm with your other hand." She showed her, miming the move in the air.

Daenerys was watching her, with both fascination and wary distaste in her eyes. It was obvious that the queen trusted her not to cause her harm, but she did not appear to much approve of deadly women.

"Have you known any other women who could kill?" Alyce asked her. "You look at me like I am a snake in truth, but Ser Barristan has killed scores more men than I, and you do not look at _him_ that way."

Daenerys looked away from her with a small frown. "Among the Dothraki, only men wield arakhs, and before then, I only knew servant women and women that were wives and mothers. I have known one woman who I know was capable of it." Her eyes were dark and far away. "Her weapons were poisons and blood magic."

"I do not deal in blood magic, Your Grace. And poison is a craven's killer."

Daenerys returned her gaze to her. "I know of a few women who have power… But they are not as scruffy as you." She smirked slightly.

Alyce rolled her eyes. "We can't all be queens and high born ladies."

"And none of us can be men." Daenerys looked away, her expression far away again. _This queen has been underestimated for being a woman as well._

"Speak for yourself," Alyce japed. "I played the part of a man perfectly well."

The queen's expression was dry. "I do not know how you managed to survive. No one could ever take you for a man." Daenerys eyed her bosom pointedly.

"They still ache from all the binding and flattening," Alyce muttered, massaging her left breast briefly with a grimace. "I sewed in padding on the waist to my clothes to conceal my hips. No one expects a woman with a sword. People can look right at obvious things and only see what they expect."

The queen was obliged to leave her shortly after and attend to other matters. Alyce had requested a book of one of the servants and picked it up again.

Her mornings were often lonely. Her habit was to use an Unsullied spear she had adopted as a makeshift cane to limp out of her sitting room quarters to the nearest public pyramid balcony overlooking Slaver's Bay.

Every day there seemed to be more sails. The whites of them looked blithe against the blue, but they were a chokehold. There was no trade by sea, and even the fisherfolk did not dare put into the bay.

There were ships from Meereen in the Bay, too—warships and trading galleys whose captains had fled to sea when Daenerys' host had first taken the city, now returned to augment the fleets from Qarth, Tolos, and New Ghis. Daenerys had no ships of her own, and her admiral only wished to talk of her dragons burning the ships in the bay. It was one of the few conversations dealing with the siege Alyce had been allowed to listen in on. But the queen would hear no talk of using her dragons. Alyce did not understand why, and she was disappointed. She had yet to even see the creatures, and still felt it was possible it was all some great lie.

She heard little from the sitting room to which she was mostly confined due to her own injury. Once or twice a day, she would limp down the nearby halls and take a tour of the now unexciting galleries, rooms, and ramparts nearest the queen's chambers, but the queen conducted her meetings and business of rule elsewhere.

Alyce spent much of her time exercising what parts of her body she still could, and, with the queen's permission, practicing with her throwing knives into a cushion nailed into a wall of the sitting room. She read a great deal, and sat out on the ramparts in the evenings as the sun set, watching the noisy, dusty city below and waiting for Tyrion.

 _Where are you?_

There was logic behind her guessing, and Lord Connington, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Queen Daenerys Targaryen had all agreed. But then where _was_ he?

It had been a hard road from Selhorys to Meereen, and perhaps it had been just as hard for a burly knight and a dwarf. Perhaps they had been set upon. Perhaps Tyrion was moldering in some unmarked grave, never to be seen or found again by anyone, least of all her. The thoughts stabbed at her.

 _If I had the stars from the darkest night and the diamonds from the deepest ocean…_

All his knowledge and experience, all his promise…rotting in the dirt. His flesh cold and unresponsive to touch, his essence vanished forever.

She had known a boy in her childhood—a local thief—who used to harass her mercilessly when they were children, but when she grew strong enough to fight back, they had become good friends. When he was finally caught in the act and hung, she had not heard about it until he had been dead half a day, and when she found him still hanging among a short line of criminals, his neck was dark, the rope sunk deep into a fleshy gouge.

His boots had been stripped, and she had reached up to touch his ankle. It was cold, blue and ivory, and hard like old wax. She had felt the life around her—rats scuttling along the sides of walls, children squalling in buildings, even worms and ants and tiny crawling things in the dirt—and had felt truly furious that they all had breath and warmth and life, but her friend had vanished forever. His muscles once quick would now rot. His teeth that had grinned wickedly and warmly would fall out. The evil of a future stolen.

Since then, death had not touched Alyce so personally. She had been fortunate and had kept few people close. And when she took life, she refused to empathize. It was survival. Bones, blood. Mechanics. The chaos of nature.

But imagining Tyrion in the same state—perhaps hanging, perhaps moldering in mud… She felt the same awareness of evil. She felt the same despair. His future stolen. The warmth of him lost to the world. The possibility made her fingernails dig deeply and painfully into her palms.

 _I would give my life for his. Not because Varys asks it of me, not because of some pissarse sense of honor or self-sacrifice, but because it would preserve him. Because everything he is would remain in the world._

 _There is more work left for him. There must be. Else his life is a greater farce than I am capable of understanding._

Meereen's stores were ample for the moment, and they could even spare some of it to bring out provisions to the diseased mouths outside the gates. There was also peace within the Pyramid now. Alyce had not made friends with the queen's handmaidens as of yet, though the Dothraki two were warming to her because they respected her strength, and the youngest and smallest one seemed as fascinated by her as her queen was. The little thing watched her with golden eyes round as moonstones. But Alyce had grown close enough to her usual attending servants to ask after the goings on. A young male servant who always sprang to do things for her told her that the queen had promised to marry one of the Ghiscari nobility—a man named Hizdahr—in exchange for peace within the city.

Alyce liked the sound of this not at all.

Daenerys' enemies were drawing all around her—all around _them_. If Astapor should fall, the Yunkai'i would turn north to lend their numbers and strength to Daenerys' besiegers. _We should leave before the Yunkish close the trap—sell Meereen, force them to pay to see our backs._ But Daenerys was above all a queen, and selling her city and fleeing was not the queenly recourse.

According to the servant, Barristan advised against allowing the forces to completely invest the city—instead, to take to the field against their patchwork host before the Yunkish arrive. They could not endure a siege forever. _But if she takes her forces down to the field, who is to hold the city against the Sons of the Harpy?_ The man referred to as The Shavepate—a Ghiscari noble that had abandoned the old Meereen for the new when Daenerys had taken the city—counselled remaining behind their strong walls. And every morning Alyce saw more sails.

 _Out of the frying pan and into the fire._ She grimaced to herself, standing on the queen's terrace opposite the small pool, looking out over the city while the two Dothraki handmaidens squabbled behind her in the shade. _More like into the dragon's maw._

She heard the queen enter. Alyce glanced behind her to see the girl looked dirty, bedraggled, and sick at heart. The tiny handmaid, Missandei, was reading a scroll and the Dothraki girls were still bickering.

Daenerys ended the squabble with some words in Dothraki, then told them in the Common Tongue, "Now be quiet. I need to bathe. Jhiqui, help me with these clothes, then take them away and burn them. Irri, tell Qezza to find me something light and cool to wear. The day was very hot."

Alyce had turned away again, contemplating the colors of the wispy clouds surrounding the low sun with her arms crossed. She balanced very still on her good leg, her spear cane leaning on the railing beside her. Seeing to the queen was not expected of her, nor her place. She was a statue on the outskirts of their activity, nothing more. She was trusted enough to hover near, but had not formed enough of a relationship with any of them enough that she was a part of them. She preferred it this way.

Behind her, Daenerys sighed with pleasure as she slipped down into the waters of the pool. At her command, Missandei stripped off her clothes as well and climbed in after her to help wash her back.

"This one heard the Astapori scratching at the walls last night," the little scribe said.

Alyce turned her head to watch. Irri and Jhiqui had exchanged a look.

"No one was scratching," said Jhiqui. "Scratching…how could they scratch?"

"With their hands," said Missandei. "The bricks are old and crumbling. They are trying to claw their way into the city."

"This would take them many years," said Irri. "The walls are very thick. It is known."

"It is known," agreed Jhiqui.

"I dream of them as well." Daenerys took Missandei's hand. "The camp is a good half mile from the city, my sweetling. No one was scratching at the walls."

"Your Grace knows best," said Missandei. "Shall I wash your hair? Reznak mo Reznak and the Green Grace are coming later to discuss—"

"—the wedding preparations." Daenerys sat up with a small splash. "I had almost forgotten. And after them, I am to dine with Hizdahr." She sighed. "Irri, bring the green _tokar_ , the silk one fringed with Myrish lace."

"That one is being repaired, _Khaleesi_. The lace is torn. The blue _tokar_ has been cleaned."

"Blue, then."

Irri left the terrace to enter the bedchamber and find the dress. Meanwhile, Missandei washed Daenerys' hair, and then the queen stepped out of the pool and Missandei and Jhiqui helped dry her with fine soft towels. The largest one the queen wrapped around herself as she went to stand near Alyce.

Alyce did not turn toward her, even as the queen stood beside her. Sometimes the queen did not wish to speak to her and only grew irritated if Alyce presumed otherwise.

But Daenerys asked of her, "How is your leg?"

"I think I was able to clean out the danger of festering, Your Grace. But it still needs changing once a day. The healing is very slow." She remained looking out at the city.

"Will you be able to use the leg as well as before once it is healed?"

"I…I hope so. There will be a rather mighty scar, and perhaps a bit of a—dent. But the muscle is healing."

"It's good to hear that."

"Thank you."

"I saw yesterday that you have murdered more of my pillows." There was a hint of a smile in her voice.

"I am grateful for the opportunity to practice."

"Perhaps tomorrow you might show me your skill."

Alyce nodded in acknowledgement. The sun was taking on a redder tint as it lowered in the sky, wavering with the heat. Daenerys more often than not appeared to forget about her, but when she sought out a conversation with her, it always felt as if she were an object of fascination for the dragon queen.

"My upcoming marriage," Daenerys murmured in a lower voice than before. "What do you think of it?"

Alyce glanced at her and then back out at the city. "Commenting on such things is not my place, Your Grace."

"No. But still, I have asked."

"Ser Barristan has seen many more summers than I, and fought in great wars. His counsel would be—"

"I have already heard what Ser Barristan has to say on this matter. It is my pleasure to hear the opinions of all. I'll not have your stubbornness."

Alyce grimaced slightly. "I cannot tell you what I hope you do not already suspect, Your Grace. This Hizdahr man would not be able to control the Sons unless he was one of them. You are marrying your enemy."

"I cannot fight both within and without," murmured Daenerys.

"Better that than die strangled in your wedding bed."

If Daenerys was surprised by her crass answer, she did not look it. She only looked troubled. _I do not lighten this queen's burden, only pile more of the same weight._

Alyce reached for lightness. "Perhaps sleep on a bed of fire, Your Grace." She smiled. "Untroubled and warm, while this Hizdahr must keep back, frustrated, his poor little prick turning blue."

This made the queen laugh. Her laugh was sunlight on water, sparkling.

"Or," Alyce added on, "I shall be your bedmate and stare at him all night like a gargoyle until he loses all the courage he has and kisses your feet in the morning like a good trained dog."

Daenerys was giggling, as were Missandei and Jhiqui now. Irri returned with the blue _tokar_ , and the girls helped the queen into it. Daenerys obviously disliked _tokars_. The dress was a horrid thing, a binding of expensive fabric that too loose would fall and too tight would trip the wearer. A section of it had to be held onto, lest it fall apart. It was an absurd sign of wealth—'I don't have to work with my hands so I can hold my outfit on all day.'

When she returned that night, she was irritated, as Alyce saw when the queen unbolted the door separating their rooms and sat herself moodily in the divan placed next to Alyce's bed. Alyce had been doing exercises before she went to sleep, but she took up her cane and limped toward the queen to sit on the bed beside her.

She said nothing. Often people wished to be alone in their thoughts. _She seeks me because the girls around her are only girls. They are sweeter than me perhaps, but weaker as well._

"Show me your throwing," commanded Daenerys. Her eyes were far away and in need of distraction.

Alyce bent to rifle through her pack and draw out the roll of special throwing knives. A fresh pillow had earlier been nailed to the wall opposite the bed, only a few rips in it. Almost lazily, she let fly one after another. Each bit greedily into the near center of the pillow and through it into the wooden table top Alyce had nailed behind as a backboard.

When she had finished, the queen commented, "You are very good."

"There is not much for me to do besides practice and read." Alyce did not rise to fetch her knives; she would as a servant to do it in the morning. Her calf throbbed and she was tired.

"It is hard for you not to be able to walk properly, I think. Warriors make the poorest cripples."

Alyce glanced at her. "Aye, but it could be worse. I believe I shall recover, but if the thrust had been a few inches to the left, I might never have been able to walk properly again." That thought had bothered her more than she wished to let on. "Tyrion and I would have made a fine pair, then. The dwarf and his lame shield." She smiled humorlessly.

"Barristan mentioned the man was a dwarf. Shouldn't he have had four or five shields instead of just one if it is so?"

Alyce shrugged. "We weren't expecting to run into so much difficulty."

"If babies are born with such deformities in the _khalasaar_ , they are left for the dogs."

"It is the same among the common folk of Westeros, only they're more often drowned. It is only because he was born a lord's son that it wasn't so." Alyce fingered some of the bedclothes between her forefinger and thumb. "He is very ugly."

Daenerys giggled at her in surprise.

"I don't exaggerate, Your Grace," continued Alyce, smiling a little despite herself. "Shockingly ugly."

"But he is a good man, you say. Ser Barristan did not have entirely pleasant things to say about him, but he did admit that he had witnessed the man being unexpectedly kind on more than one occasion."

That gratified Alyce to hear. "He is…complicated." She looked at the ruined pillow in the far wall without seeing it. "He is not often serious—he prefers to speak in japes. And he is very clever, and can at times be vicious. But he… There is goodness there as well."

"You speak tenderly of him."

Alyce shifted uncomfortably. "I grew fond of him."

Daenerys gazed at her. "I have spoken to Grey Worm. My Unsullied will be watching and looking for a dwarf and Ser Jorah. If they find them, they shall bring them to me, unharmed if possible."

"I'm very grateful, Your Grace," Alyce murmured, the truth of her gratitude in her eyes. "Thank you for your open mind—and your patience with me."

The queen looked satisfied.

"Are there many women like you in Westeros?" Daenerys asked.

"No…there aren't many. But when you return to Westeros perhaps you'll meet the Sand Snakes. They are Dornish bastard girls of Prince Oberyn Martell's get. I have heard they are each very fierce and are masters of their chosen weaponry."

"The Sand Snakes," Daenerys repeated.

"Dorne was a close ally of your house when King Robert took the throne. Your brother Rhaegar's wife was a princess of Dorne."

Daenerys was nodding. "Have you been there?"

"Twice, both times to Sunspear, the capital. The road to Dorne is mountainous and dry, and the land is half desert and half green riverlands. They've adopted many Rhoynish customs in their relative isolation—and their fruit, wine, and spices are the best in the Seven Kingdoms." Alyce remembered the hot heaven of the sun on water, glinting and shifting blindingly. The sting of dragon peppers that somehow made one feel cooler despite their fire. Laughing brown children running, their bare feet coated in dust. The heat in the nights, when the Dornish heart ran hot with lust.

Usually the young queen would pepper her with questions whenever the Kingdoms were mentioned, but she seemed too fatigued tonight.

"Are you alright, Your Grace?" Alyce asked her gently.

"No. No, and I shall not be until Meereen is safe." She stood.

"Goodnight, Your Grace."

"Goodnight."

…


	23. IX: The Faith of Sellswords

…

IX.

The Faith of Sellswords

 **I** n a long, echoing gallery that provided shade while its wide glassless arches to the outside let in the breeze off the sea, Ser Barristan Selmy was training boys in swordplay.

Alyce Waters watched the training enviously, her aching calf reminding her with every shift of her weight how unable to perform such maneuvers she now was. The great knight's scruffy boys had no concept of the honor and privilege of being personally trained by Ser Barristan, a former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. A legend.

Alyce itched with longing.

She could only watch from against a pillar, too womanly to be a man and too unfeminine to be a woman, a fighter that could not fight. The pyramid's _imoa kijakthi._ A crippled stone shadow.

Her body had always been there for her. A capable and fine-toned tool. Now she found that without the use of one leg, she was close to useless. She had been a great many things in her life, but useless had never been one of them.

She could not even stay through the entire lesson—leaning her entire weight on one side made her good leg ache, and she was forced eventually to hobble on her spear back through the pyramid to her rooms again.

In her room, she stretched and put weight on her bad leg in stints, pushing it and ignoring the pain. Every day, she pushed. Even if Tyrion were to arrive somehow at the gates of Meereen, she was no use to him crippled.

The healing was agonizingly slow.

That evening, Alyce was eating nectarines in the shade of Daenerys' bedchamber with little Missandei curled at her side, telling the insatiably curious little scribe of the great houses of Westeros, when the Queen Daenerys rushed into the chamber, pink-cheeked and calling for her handmaidens. Alyce watched wide-eyed as all rushed to assist her as she tried on dress after dress, unable to find one that looked well enough on her.

"Your Grace," Alyce finally said bluntly from her cushioned chair in the middle of all this, "you look as well in this dress as you have in the last three. Have Jhiqui fix your hair—she is the best at it—line your eyes, use the dark pink color for your lips, and be done with it."

"I did not ask for your opinion," the queen snapped. She tried on two more dresses before she was satisfied, but she did do as Alyce had suggested when it came to her hair and the color to her lips.

"You have a lover."

The queen rounded on her, but luckily for Alyce she was distracted enough not to become fully angry. "I have taken no man into my bed since Khal Drogo," she hissed with vehemence. "If I hear one more presumption from you, a spear will be put through your other leg."

Her words had no true heat, however. Her mind was elsewhere. She waved away Irri's offered crown impatiently.

 _Who is arriving?_ Alyce wondered. _Who has her heart aflutter?_ She felt uneasy. _These great dragons and their hearts. They give too easily._ Alyce did not like the idea of a man whispering advice to Daenerys between her sheets. For some man to have that much power. Who knew where his loyalties might lie? Surely Daenerys would be careful. From what she had seen of the young queen, it seemed the girl was judicious and wise for her years. Alyce hoped she was applying the same caution to whom she let into her bed.

When Daenerys left, Alyce was not expressly invited, but she was not locked in her sitting room either, so, hobbling, she followed the queen and Missandei down a level of the pyramid to a grand room, in which were convened the queen's captains and commanders as well as Ser Barristan, the Shavepate, and Unsullied guards.

When Alyce stood herself near the Unsullied, a quiet muttering came from some of them, but they did not challenge her permission to be there.

Daenerys took the best seat and Ser Barristan bowed, leaving. Daenerys watched the doors.

When Barristan returned, he led in a Tyroshi captain Alyce had never seen before. He had the mark of the Stormcrows, and his dress and swagger led Alyce to believe he was their captain. He had a flamboyant three-pronged forked beard, dyed blue, as well as dyed blue hair. Despite this ridiculousness, he made a handsome man—tanned, muscular, and dressed well in colorful finery with weapons hanging from him—with a curved arakh on his left hip and a Myrish stiletto on his right. But at this moment his hair was matted with dried blood, and on his temple a deep cut glistened red and raw. His right sleeve was bloody almost to the elbow.

His handsomeness had already made it plain to Alyce who the queen had been breathless over meeting tonight, but if it had not, the queen's distress at his wounds wound have.

"You're hurt," Daenerys gasped as he took a knee before her.

"This?" the captain touched his temple. "A crossbowman tried to put a quarrel through my eye, but I outrode it. I was hurrying home to my queen, to bask in the warmth of her smile." He shook his sleeve, splattering red droplets. "This blood is not mine. One of my serjeants said we should go over to the Yunkai'i, so I reached down his throat and pulled his heart out. I meant to bring it to you as a gift for my silver queen, but four of the Cats cut me off and came snarling and spitting after me. One almost caught me, so I threw the heart into his face."

"Very gallant," said Ser Barristan, in a tone that suggested it was anything but, "but do you have tidings for Her Grace?"

"Hard tidings, Ser Grandfather. Astapor is gone, and the slavers are coming north in strength."

"This is old news, and stale," growled the Shavepate.

"Your mother said the same of your father's kisses," the captain replied. "Sweet queen, I would have been here sooner, but the hills are aswarm with Yunkish sellswords. Four free companies. Your Stormcrows had to cut their way through all of them. There is more, and worse. The Yunkai'i are marching heir host up the coast road, joined by four legions out of New Ghis. They have elephants, a hundred, armored and towered. Tolosi slingers too, and a corps of Qartheen camelry. Two more Ghiscari legions took ship at Astapor. If our captives told it true, they will be landed beyond the Skahazadhan to cut us off from the Dothraki Sea."

As he told his tale, from time to time a drop of red blood would patter against the marble floor and Daenerys would wince.

"How many men were killed?" she asked when he was done.

"Of ours? I did not stop to count. We gained more than we lost, though."

"More turncloaks?"

"More brave men drawn to your noble cause. My queen will like them. One is an axeman from the Basilisk Isles, a brute, bigger than Belwas. You should see him. Some Westerosi too, a score or more. Deserters from the Windblown, unhappy with the Yunkai'i. They'll make good Stormcrows."

"If you say."

 _Meereen might soon have need of every sword._ Ser Barristan was frowning at the captain. "Captain, you made mention of _four_ free companies. We know of only three. The Windblown, the Long Lances, and the Company of the Cat."

"Ser Grandfather knows how to count. The Second Sons have gone over to the Yunkai'i." He turned his handsome head and spat. "That's for Brown Ben Plumm. When next I see his ugly face I will open him from throat to groin and rip out his black heart."

At his words, an uproar went up amongst the listeners.

 _When sellswords see your cause as too hopeless to remain aligned with, it is the time for fear._

Reznak was wailing, the Shavepate was muttering darkly, the queen's Dothraki bloodriders were spitting threats Alyce could not understand. A colossal eunuch fighter covered in pale scars was thumping on his belly with his fist and swearing to eat Brown Ben's heart with onions.

Daenerys said something, but went unheard. She rose to her feet. " _Be quiet_! I have heard enough."

"Your Grace." Ser Barristan went to one knee. "We are yours to command. What would you have us do?"

"Continue as we planned. Gather food, as much as you can." Her eyes seemed to lose their light. "Cut the Astapori from our rations. Close the gates for good, and put every fighting man upon the walls."

The hall was quiet for a moment. The men looked at one another. The queen's jaw was rigid and the difficulty of her decision left wild despair in her purple eyes. "Will you make me say it twice? Leave me. Daario, remain. That cut should be washed, and I have more questions for you."

After the bowing departures, Alyce followed the girls and Daario up the steps back to Daenerys' bedchamber. Irri set to washing his cut with vinegar and Jhiqui to fetching some white linen. Alyce knew her place was no longer in the queen's room but could not bring herself to leave the girl alone with a handful of helpless girls and a sellsword like a hungry lion in their midst. She lingered against the wall, her suspicious eyes watching the bloody captain for any hint of foul intent.

"Your fine little cripple looks as if she is unhappy with my service," Daario drawled, his eyes cutting to Alyce's and his dry words carrying a bite that let her know that her narrowed eyes were not unnoticed. "Is this your Kissing Snake the Unsullied were so offended by?" He seemed amused. "I could tame this little snakemeat for my sweet queen and turn her into a kissing kitten."

"I have heard that overarrogant men oft lose their lives to snake bites," Alyce replied in the same sort of conversational drawl. "Because they are so little, they hide in boots and drawers and make a nuisance of themselves."

Daario's eyes narrowed. "I hope my queen knows what sort of little snake she keeps in her bedchamber."

"Let us hope she is as wise when it comes to sellswords as she is with snakes."

Daario stood, the feet of his chair scraping noisily across the floor.

Daenerys had had quite enough. "You are no longer welcome and you will leave us," the queen leveled at her. Alyce wordlessly limped into her sitting room and the door was bolted behind her. Their voices became muffled, but she knew she would still be able to hear a scream. Unfortunately, Daario looked to be the sort that could kill noiselessly. Alyce closed her eyes.

To be at ease with such a man in Daenerys' bed would mean she had to trust in the queen's discernment, but after seeing the girl's fluttered and breathless reaction to his return, that was not something she felt she could completely trust. Alyce eyed the window to the right of her makeshift bed. If she heard any sort of struggle, she would climb out the window, across the short stretch of brick, onto Daenerys' terrace and into her rooms, blazing leg pain notwithstanding. She kept her sword and knives close at her hip and curled on the marble floor against the door, listening to the tones of the muffled voices.

After Irri and Jhiqui had left for their rooms down the hall, Alyce remained listening to the soft voices that within minutes became moans and breathless cries of desire. Her toes clenched at the sound. It made her feel cold and old somehow. _I have become like an old governess, waspish toward the young man who encroaches._ But Daenerys Targaryen was no innocent maiden. She had bedded a great Dothraki khal, one of the roughest and fiercest husbands to be found anywhere. She commanded armies and reportedly burned great masters into ash where they stood. Alyce knew she must keep such things in mind.

Daario growled with passion and the sounded traveled through the stone. Alyce closed her eyes. She felt empty and cold between her legs. Growling internally, she unsheathed her largest knife and tucked its hilt up between her thighs. Its cold, dangerous hardness filled the space.

 _This is who you are. Not some maiden sighing for kisses._

 _A blade. A shield._

 _This._

…


	24. X: True Wants

…

X.

True Wants

 **H** er calf was healing.

For more than a month she had felt as if she would never be more than a contemptible hobbling creature, but finally the morning came when she found that she could press her weight on her leg without feeling as if her leg were splitting in two. And every morning since that day, the pain lessened by half a degree. The scarred skin was tight, bruised, and bulged strangely, but she lathered it in lotions and stretched the muscles all day with walking.

Ser Barristan appraised her when she met him in the gallery a few minutes before his lessons with his boys usually began. She was wearing her steel hauberk, fitted plate, light mail, and greaves.

"I plead for the honor of training beneath you, ser," she told him.

"Your leg does not look fully healed."

"I will not be as quick as I should like to be," she admitted, "but I am past the danger of tearing it open again with the exertion."

"You have only a shortsword, so you can use—"

"I should like to use my sword, ser."

"Against my longsword? Alyce—"

"That and my dirk." She drew, her sword in her right and her longest and strongest knife in her left. Comfortable weights. It felt good to hold them again.

Barristan considered, frowning. "Well, as you like. Perhaps we shall be able to make a demonstration of it for the students."

"If you wish, ser."

"Very well, then. On your guard." Barristan drew.

"Yes, ser." She allowed him to advance toward her instead of meeting him, thrilled to the marrow that she was sparring with a legend of the Seven Kingdoms. She knew the way he would fight, too, and the ways to counter it.

She slid, slipping around him and using his momentum against him, but Barristan was plenty quick enough to respond. She danced around him, slashing. Barristan barked out a laugh.

"No, you will not make a good demonstration. You fight like a sneak thief."

Alyce could not help but smile at his criticism. "It's true, ser. I do not have the strength to test myself against you with knightly forms. That would be an embarrassing display."

The boys had begun to trickle in, gathering around them and smiling and watching the entertainment. They were obliged to give them a wide berth, as Alyce sometimes slid away and circled wide.

She watched the old knight's expression transform from indulgent to fascinated as they continued their sparring. She kept testing him, using new moves every other minute and always using his larger size and weight against him, but Alyce was amazed at how the man's excellent and ingrained reflexes kept her knife completely off of him where lesser swordsmen would have been harried mercilessly. When she thought a move would throw him off guard, he refused to be shaken, and instead Alyce found herself unprepared for the thrusts that came at her in those moments of her incorrectly-assumed upper hand.

At full health, she would have been more mobile than the older man, but her leg had begun to ache badly, whereas Ser Barristan seemed to still be in his fighting prime despite his age. She could tell that even in her full health and shape, she would not have been able to get the upper hand of this knight—not without some mighty distraction. Lord Connington had been an excellent swordfighter, but Ser Barristan was still his superior. The man's instincts were like magic. One simply could not be _taught_ battle instincts such as his.

"My leg is troubling me, good ser," Alyce finally panted, smiling as she sashayed away and lowered her sword, balancing now only on her good leg. "I heartily yield."

Barristan sheathed his longsword and gave her a rare smile as the young boys clapped and called out to them.

"Well fought, my lady," he complimented. "I have fought Braavosi and Dothraki, westermen, pirates, sellswords, and thieves, but I have never known someone to combine traits from all of them into their technique." He breathed deeply, a hand on his stomach, catching his breath. "I should like to spar with you again, and often."

Alyce was touched, and pride and pleasure made her neck hot. She bowed to him handsomely. "I will be most honored."

She watched Ser Barristan instruct his students for their lesson, though once her breath was fully back, she sat herself on the floor against a marble pillar to spare her throbbing leg. _I pushed my leg too hard today and may not be able to spar again tomorrow. But soon I will grow strong again._ She closed her eyes, more content than she had been in months.

She could fight again. She could move and run and kill.

She would train almost every day with the great Ser Barristan Selmy.

And she would wait.

The queen's enemies…now her enemies…were closing in. There were never less than a dozen ships drawn up on the shore. Some days there were as many as a hundred, when the soldiers were disembarking. The Yunkai'i were even bringing in wood by sea. Behind their ditches, they were building catapults, scorpions, tell trebuchets. On still nights she could hear the hammers ringing through the warm, dry air. _No siege towers, though. No battering rams._ They would not try to take Meereen by storm. They would wait behind their lines, flinging stones at the queen's city until famine and disease had brought her people to their knees.

Alyce wondered where in this mass of seething people, animals, and enemies Tyrion Lannister might be, or if his fate lay elsewhere, unknown to her and out of reach. At times the closing lines of the slaver armies felt like thick ropes closing about her neck and cutting her off from escape and from her vows.

 _No, there's nothing you can send me, my own true love.  
There's nothing I wish to be owning;  
Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled  
From across that lonesome ocean._

…

Her cooks had roasted her a dinner of kid with dates and carrots, but Daenerys Targaryen had only eaten a bite of it.

Sleep came hard, even when Daario came back, so drunk that he could hardly stand. Beneath her coverlets she tossed and turned, dreaming that Hizdahr was kissing her…but his lips were blue and bruised, and when he thrust himself inside her, his manhood was cold as ice. She sat up with her hair disheveled and the bedclothes atangle. Her captain slept beside her, yet she was alone. She wanted to shake him, wake him, make him hold her, fuck her, help her forget, but she knew that if she did, he would only smile and yawn and say, "It was just a dream, my queen. Go back to sleep."

Instead she slipped into a hooded robe and stepped out onto her terrace to stand gazing down upon the city as she had done a hundred times before.

A dark form was already there before her, cloaked and sitting at the very edge of her terrace, his back to her.

Dany froze in surprise, but the form turned to look and she saw it was only the crippled Westerosi shield girl—Alyce—sitting in the darkness overlooking the city, her legs dangling over the side of the stone. The young woman bowed her head briefly in greeting, but did not trouble herself to get up for a proper bow. This girl was always doing that—skirting more humble displays of deference with a shallower showing of respect. It spoke of a sort of self-involved carelessness, but Dany supposed it was preferable to the overblown deference of a lickspittle.

"What are you doing here?" Dany demanded in an undertone, coming up beside her.

"The night's too hot for sleeping, Your Grace," Alyce replied quietly. Her voice was low and cool as water. "I only have the window, so this is the only place I can feel some breeze."

Dany glanced over the bricks toward the window of the room she had given the shield girl as her own. "Did you climb across the wall?"

"Aye."

"On your bad leg?"

"It isn't difficult. The old stones are full of handholds, and my leg is taking my weight this week." Her voice was quiet and low, but pleasant. Dany liked to hear the Common Tongue being spoken by someone other than Ser Barristan.

The girl was cloaked in dark grey, but under the cloak she wore only her underclothes. Her sword was not on her, and neither was her belt, but Dany saw a small knife sheathed in a leather strap on her bare inner arm. Her face was draped in the dimness of the night, but as usual it had a cool, hungry look to it. Her features were pleasant, delicate, and very Westerosi, and there was something even hinting toward nobility in the angles of her brow, nose, and the uncommonly pretty color of her eyes. Her expression, however, was stony and distant more oft than not, and the unfeminine hardness of her body and prickly short hair were not welcoming.

She was beautiful in the way unpolished gems could sometimes be beautiful—a hard, sharp beauty. Not a feminine beauty—or perhaps _more_ than a feminine beauty. Loveliness put through fire until it became strength.

The Unsullied said amongst themselves that she and his girl were perfect opposites. Dark where she was fair. Rash where she was wise. Deadly and wrathful where their queen was a healer, a mother. But Dany admired this other girl's hardness, and her knowledge of bodies—how to strike, how to heal a wound. She was fascinating. And her disinterest and distraction made her trustworthy somehow. Everyone in Dany's life right now revolved around _her_ , her city, her future. But this girl so obviously wished to merely pass through. Her hard blue eyes hunted the darkness for a different fate. Her wishes and plans hinged on someone else.

"Is the heat keeping you awake as well?" the girl asked her.

"I'm long used to the heat. Meereen keeps me awake."

Alyce nodded slowly. "She sleeps now, but she is a loud and hungry beast."

"Aye."

Alyce glanced sideways at her, humor in her eyes at Dany's teasing use of her unrefined word.

"What do you think about, sitting here and not sleeping?" she asked Alyce.

"My thoughts have no real order. They cloud and drift, and some are not thoughts at all in truth. But mostly I think of Tyrion. And of waiting." The girl turned her dark head toward Dany. "Did the captain upset you?"

"No."

"But neither can he comfort you, it seems."

Dany glanced at her, irritated. _Always, she is too bold_. "My enemies mount daily, and my people are trapped. There is no comfort."

"Not so, Your Grace," the girl replied gently, looking out at the dark city again. "You breathe and move freely. You have both youth and beauty. Already you have done more good than most people can ever accomplish in a lifetime, and you have done it with poise and cleverness. You already have a place in legend and the singer's songs, and most human life passes from birth to death without even a line to be remembered by. There is your comfort."

"I am responsible for all the lives I have freed. My Astapori children starve and suffer disease outside my walls. My Unsullied are daily attacked. There is no comfort."

"As you say, Your Grace."

After a moment of quiet, Dany climbed onto the ledge beside the dark, quiet young woman.

"Careful," Alyce hissed, tensing to catch her should she slip. They watched the dark, sleeping city. Hazy white stars turned high above them. Alyce wiped the dewy sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand.

"Do you have family?" Dany asked her.

"Bastards don't have the privilege of much family," Alyce replied, her voice easy and low. "My mother is a septa in King's Landing."

"Truly? A septa?"

"She hid the pregnancy and Lord Varys helped her. He found housing and a wet nurse for me." Alyce picked at the stone beside her. "I have half brothers and sisters, but I don't know them."

"And your father?"

"My sire, more like… I never knew him."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three, Your Grace."

Dany turned to stare at her. "I did not think you were so old."

"I'm not. Your Ser Barristan is old."

"Are you married? Have you been married?"

"I'm not the marrying sort." Alyce gave her a sour look, as if to prove her point.

"Have there been lovers?"

"I have lost count, Your Grace."

Dany smiled and commanded, "Tell me of them."

"I shall keep you up all night."

"I wasn't going to be able to sleep, anyway. Come, we'll cool in my pool. You look as if the heat is roasting you from the inside."

At the offer, Alyce immediately dropped her cloak and began to shed her smallclothes. "Heat sticks in me. Pale waif like you, it just passes through you."

"A _waif_?" Dany had to laugh under her breath at the girl's absurd cheek. "I am your queen, you wench."

"We're all the same, naked." Alyce sighed happily as she slid into Dany's private terrace bath.

Dany muttered, "I'm surprised you weren't already _in_ here."

"I attempt not to take _too_ many liberties, Your Grace."

Dany snorted. "A poor attempt." She cocked her head. "You stomach looks like a man's. With lumps."

"Yes, yes." Alyce sighed absently, leaning her head back and enjoying the coolness of the water.

"Where did you get that scar?"

She glanced where Dany was pointing. "Fighting some bloody outlaws on the Gold Road quite a few years ago."

"Where is the Gold Road?"

"It runs between King's Landing on the eastern shore and Lannisport on the western."

"And this one?" The queen pointed.

"Ah." She smirked. "Some aled-up wench in Lord Harroway's Town threw a platter at me because she thought I'd bedded her husband."

"Did you?"

"If he was the one what had green eyes and wore fox fur boots, aye, that was me. He never made mention of a wife, so I would argue I was not at all to blame."

Dany was giggling. She reached out to touch a fresh scar on Alyce's shoulder.

"And this?"

Alyce grimaced. "You've got your damned Ser Jorah to thank for that."

Dany paused, sobering, but then she nodded slowly. "You said he cut you. I remember. Will you grow your hair back out again?"

Alyce pursed her lips in thought. "I don't know. I rather liked my hair. But I like this as well."

"I like it short." The queen reached out to touch it. Her eyebrows rose. "It's very thick." Her warm thigh rubbed Alyce's in the water and her small, pale breasts glinted wetly when she raised her arm to touch her hair. Alyce smiled a little, crookedly, stirring with arousal between her own thighs.

"Your Grace," she told her quietly and frankly, "some of those lovers I could tell you of were women. So if you keep rubbing up against me in the water like that, my purely sisterly affection for you might shift into something you're not interested in. Fair warning."

Surprisingly, this only brought a look of mild surprise to the queen's sweet face instead of a look of disgust. She replied, "You actually sought out women to lie with? As in, you chose them over men?"

"Sometimes. Though I prefer men as a general rule."

Daenerys nodded. She commanded, "Tell me of your lovers."

Alyce smiled, tilting her head back to rest it on the stone rim of the pool while she lay in the water, and she told the queen in a quiet voice about fisherman's sons, Sarsfield squires, singers' talented hands and tongues, a thickly muscled castellan, and a fabulously witty master of laws. A lithe and devious whore was her first girl, but then there was a brief and breathless nightly liaison with a banker's daughter. She told her of a certain goldcloak, and of household guards she used to bring wine to and fuck until they passed out. Men were far more emotional in their cups—they held tighter and spoke sweeter. They betrayed secrets.

At no point in her stories did the queen blush. Alyce made her laugh often, with jokes about her failed or more surprising conquests.

"I see why you do not wish to marry," Daenerys told her. "You would grow bored."

"Aye." Alyce was reminded of her conversation with Tyrion on the deck of the _Maid_ about how she would end an old shrew. The queen was watching her change of expression. "And you?" Alyce asked her. "Are you truly going to marry this Hizdahr?"

Daenerys nodded, her expression arranging itself into careful blankness. "I must. I need peace within the city and he can give it to me. The date has already been set."

Alyce said nothing.

"I can see there is no pleasing you," the queen muttered to her.

Alyce shifted in the water. "I do not like the idea of a man working his way into your heart and then giving you advice on matters of war and policy. Then it will be as _he_ rules."

"I know what Daario is," she sighed. "And he does not discuss such things with me. We do not discuss much at all." She smiled a little, wickedly.

Alyce nodded. "That is good to hear." She sighed, sitting up and looking away darkly. "Men will always seek to control you. To educate you. They see it as their right. A woman with strength and wisdom of her own is a difficult pill for most to swallow."

It was quiet again for a few moments. Dany sat up and lifted out of the pool, growing chilly. She sat naked on the stone rim.

"How long will you wait for this dwarf lord?" she asked her. "What will you do if he never comes?"

"When I lose hope, I suppose it would be my duty to return to Lord Varys and report of my failure."

Daenerys pursed her lips tightly. "That is not something I can allow."

"I thought perhaps you would think that way." Alyce lifted out of the pool as well. The arid air sucked the water from her skin, drying her quickly, and making her slightly itchy. Her nipples hardened as the drying cooled them. "I do not blame you for doubting Varys… I am, in that case, your captive until you choose to release me."

The queen looked unhappy, but unmoved. She had known Alyce would have to remain her captive ever since she heard her story.

"But you aren't unhappy here, I imagine?" Dany asked.

"I count myself _lucky_. I can wait here in comfort for Lord Tyrion. I am not in your cells any longer. I can train with Ser Barristan. And I have good company." She smiled a little.

Daenerys was nodding. A slightly shiver passed through her and they both stood.

"Try to sleep, Your Grace," Alyce told her, picking up her cloak from the stone and handing it to her. She picked up her own underthings and slipped back into them as well.

"Come, I'll let you back into your room through my chambers so you won't risk the wall again."

Alyce let her take her back through her bedchamber. In the dim light of the single lit torch out on the terrace, she saw the queen's Tyroshi captain sleeping sprawled on her great bed with his mouth open, dead asleep. Daenerys unbolted her door quietly and Alyce passed through without comment. The queen shut the door, and Alyce dropped her cloak and spread herself on her own bed to try to find a few hours of sleep before the rise of the dry, hot sun.

Two nights later, Alyce awakened all at once like a cat when she heard the sound of her small room's door bolt sliding out of place. In the almost total darkness, she reached for her belt lying on the rug beside her bed, drew, and rolled out of bed as the door opened.

At the sound of the steel being drawn, there was a pause at the black maw of the opened door.

"Stop—it's only me," the queen whispered, and Alyce relaxed and rolled back into bed, groaning softly and dropping her knife back on the rug near her belt.

"Were you already awake?" Dany moved quietly to her bed and snuggled herself in next to her.

"No." A little surprised by this intimacy, Alyce allowed her into her bed. There was only enough room for two if they both turned to their sides.

"You're a very light sleeper."

"Useful in my line of work…" She and the queen were on friendly terms, and she knew the girl trusted her, but she had not expected to become bedmates like one of her handmaidens. _Has someone hurt her?_ "What's the matter? Need I geld your captain?"

"No."

There seemed to be no urgent matter. Likely the little queen was unable to sleep again. Too sleepy to do much in the way of thinking, Alyce comforted her, pulling her slim little body close and petting a place on her back. Her blonde hair was everywhere. Alyce pushed it away from her nose and closed her eyes again.

The girl smelled rich—spicy and flowery. It was like curling up with a bundle of perfumed silk. Alyce preferred the earthier scents of bodies without such luxuries. The salty sweetness of sweat… The smell of vinegar entered her mind and she pushed it away with a pang.

She drew close to sleep again, but could tell from the queen's breathing that she was not doing the same. Alyce pet her back. "Give fears and worry your time during the day," she murmured. "In the nights, you must let them go and give yourself some peace. Else go mad. Think of your dreams. The things you want. Imagine them coming true and live there until you're asleep."

Dany sighed softly. "Is that what you do?"

"Mm."

"What do you want to become true?"

Alyce sighed. "Now, that's asking a woman to bear her soul."

"You don't have to tell me."

"My small wants are respectable things, but my true wants are childish."

Dany was thoughtful a moment. "Everyone's true wants are childish, I think. That is to say, basic."

"True enough." Alyce sighed and shifted a little. She had to push Dany's wispy hair out of her face again. She closed her eyes. The girl was so curious about her. _She wishes to be close to me._ She decided to bare her vulnerabilities a touch. It would engender her trust. And perhaps, even though a Targaryen queen should have been leagues out of a King's Landing bastard's circle of acquaintance, the girl might become a friend.

"When I was a child," she murmured to the queen, "I dreamt that one day Lord Varys would turn to me and tell me to pack my things because he was taking me into live with him in his little manor on the Hill of Rhaenys. I always had a place to live in King's Landing, but it was always someone else's."

"You wanted a home."

Alyce felt some chagrin, despite her resolve to be vulnerable. She had no small amount of pride, and disliked laying her weaknesses bare. But Daenerys was sniffing after closeness. Closeness and a distraction, always a distraction. "And a parent I respected," she replied. "I love my mother, but I've never respected her. She's too soft—yielding. Weak. Some part of me still wants Varys to take me in as his. If a _daughter_ fails, she is still kept. If an _underling_ fails…"

Alyce could not see the queen in the darkness, but the girl shifted with irritation for her sake. "You need a real family, not a spider."

There were families Alyce had grown close to, but they had never been hers. Families housed her, but she was never one of them.

She was quiet for a few moments, then added to the list of her weaknesses: "I dream Tyrion is not dead. That I was not wrong—that he will make it here somehow unscathed."

Daenerys was quiet and Alyce almost continued, but then the queen murmured unexpectedly, "You mention nothing about yourself or your vow. Your failure or success as a shield. Only his wellbeing. You care for him, I think."

Alyce winced slightly though the girl could not see it in the dark. "As I must, as his sworn shield."

She could hear the conclusions in Daenerys' silence. The girl put her forehead against hers in the dark and it reminded Alyce so forcibly of her most intimate moment with Tyrion that her heart throbbed and she almost winced again, but mastered herself. As sweet as this queen was, she did not wish for her to know every secret of her heart.

 _I had forgotten how difficult it is to disguise affection. I must be less of a fool going forward, else I could endanger him… If I ever find him again…_

"I dream of becoming an unmovable shield—destroying danger before it can even threaten. And to die well before I can become old and useless. Those are my dreams."

"Do you want children?"

"No."

"Never?"

"I've known mothers. Mothers of common birth, like me. Their lives are only work and mess."

"I will never have children."

"Why do you say so?" Alyce frowned. "You can do whatever you'd like."

"It was prophesied."

"Fuck prophesies," Alyce muttered. "Most are farce, and real ones never make themselves plain until they come about. Only fools put stock in prophesy. Not queens. Who is to tell the Mother of Dragons what she can and cannot do?"

Dany was silent.

Alyce was tired and wished to sleep. "Now close your eyes while I tell you of the Dornish Water Gardens." She pulled the girl snuggly against her and murmured, "They were a gift to the first Daenerys Targaryen. Prince Maron Martell raised them from the golden sands of the coastal beach along the Summer Sea. Children from all stations and regions of Dorne are fostered there if sent. Servant children play with princes and princesses. Pink marble paves the gardens and courtyards, and the children laugh and chase one another from morning to night. Fountains spray and gurgle water, and the pools shine and ripple like liquid diamond. Blood orange trees and fluted terraces overlook the pools. The warm breeze always smells of salt water and sunlight…"

Alyce lowered her voice and whispered a bit more about the perfection of autumn in Dorne as she felt the queen relax into sleep. Her arm was heavy under the queen's head, but Alyce ignored her discomfort and thought of other things to find sleep again. She imagined Tyrion climbing the pyramid steps and how warm his arms and face would be when she met him here.

…


	25. XI: The Sun's Son

…

XI.

The Sun's Son

 **W** hen Alyce returned from a dawn bout with Ser Barristan, she found Dany's handmaidens dressing her in cool clothes. She wore a crown for the first time since Alyce had met her, and when she eyed it questioningly, Dany explained, "I must hold court today."

Alyce was interested. "May I attend?"

Dany nodded absently. "One more sword is always welcome."

This reminded Alyce that the Sons of the Harpy could still make a bold appearance, despite the peace of the last month, and her face hardened. She nodded curtly.

When they descended to the grand throne room, it was only Alyce and Missandei that accompanied the queen amidst her usual wall of Unsullied. Alyce still was unused to being surrounded by the soldiers. The Unsullied were some of the best fighters in the world, and she could feel their cool, uniform power all around her, surrounding her. It made her feel trapped and on-edge.

When they reached the cavernous room, Alyce spotted Ser Barristan and separated from the girls to join him where he was positioned before Daenerys' throne but slightly to the left. He was alone, but seemed unbothered by her placing herself at his side. He nodded to her slightly and she returned it, taking up a similar stature to his. She utterly adored the man, but kept her face stone-blank.

As Daenerys descended, Missandei called, " _All kneel for Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles and Mother of Dragons_."

They rose as she finished. Reznak mo Reznak bowed and beamed at the queen. "Magnificence, every day you grow more beautiful. I think the prospect of your wedding has given you a glow. Oh, my shining queen!"

Dany sighed. "Summon the first petitioner."

The crush of cases seemed overwhelming to Alyce. She knew Daenerys had not held court since she had arrived, which was months ago. The back of the hall was a solid press of people, and scuffled broke out over precedence. All the Unsullied guards in the throne room, Ser Barristan, Alyce, and the rest of the queen's mostly crew of shields eyed the throng with narrowed eyes, searching for suspicious behavior or the glint of weapons. After a time of standing, Alyce's leg began to pain her, but she ignored it. It seemed the line of petitioners would never end.

A green-veiled and important-looking woman stepped forward, catching Alyce's attention.

"Your Radiance, it might be best were we to speak in private."

"Would that I had the time." Dany's voice was patient and sweet, despite the weariness that was likely setting in. "I am to be wed at the end of the month. What would you have of me?"

Alyce had known the wedding would be soon, but had not kept abreast of such things. _Another month._ She tried not to see the wedding as an ending. _All men must die. If this husband is an ill fit for the Queen of Dragons, he will see his end perhaps sooner than he might wish. He can be done away with._

"I would speak to you about the presumption of a certain sellsword captain," the veiled woman said.

Alyce bristled and her eyes flew to Dany's. The queen had a careful mask of nonemotion, though her eyes had flashed.

"The treachery of Brown Ben Plumm has shocked us all," Daenerys replied coolly, "but your warning comes too late. And now I know you will want to return to your temple to pray for peace."

Alyce thought it likely that Plumm was not the captain to which the veiled woman referred.

The woman bowed. "I shall pray for you as well."

The color rose on Daenerys' face and neck and Alyce glanced again at the veiled woman. She wished to ask Ser Barristan who she was, but did not what to break the stony decorum that all the queen's shields stood enveloped in.

The tedium went on. Daenerys sat upon her cushions, listening, one foot jiggling with impatience. Jhiqui brought a platter of ham and figs at midday, and Irri served Ser Barristan, Alyce, and the rest of the individual guards. The Unsullied ate nothing. For every two petitioners Daenerys sent off smiling, one left red-eyed and muttering.

The pink of sunset colored the walls opposite the windows when the queen's blue captain—Daario Naharis—appeared with some Stormcrows in tow. Three of the lot caught Alyce's eye—they were Westerosi beneath their concealing sellsword fittings. Dornish. Alyce stirred.

"Three Dornishmen," she whispered to Ser Barristan. The old man was also looking hard at the men.

"The middle boy," Alyce continued in a low hiss to the knight, "He's familiar to me but I cannot place him." Daario introduced all the men as new Stormcrows, come over from the Windblown. Scruffy as they looked, they sported signs of wealth: gold arm rings, silken tunics, silver-studded sword belts. Plunder. One of them Alyce realized was a woman—big and blonde and all in mail. "Pretty Meris," Daario named her, though she was anything but. She was deeply scarred and earless, with very cold eyes. Alyce liked her not at all and chilled her own eyes to match.

"Hugh Hungerford" was slim and saturnine, long-legged, long-faced, clad in faded finery. Webber was short and muscular, with spiders tattooed across his head, chest, an arms. Red-faced Orson Stone claimed to be a knight. Will of the Woods leered at the queen even as he took a knee. Dick Straw had hair as white as flax, Ginger Jack's face was hidden behind an orange beard with unintelligible speech due to a half-bitten off tongue.

The Dornishmen were introduced as Greenguts, Gerrold, and Frog. Greenguts was huge and bald as a stone, with arms thick enough to rival Daenerys' enormous eunuch fighter. Gerrold was a lean, tall youth with sun streaks in his hair and laughing blue-green eyes—a face that had likely won many a maiden's heart. His cloak was of soft brown wool lined with sandsilk.

Frog, the squire, standing in the middle of the two, was the youngest and the least impressive of the three. He was squarish of face, with a high forehead and a broad nose, and the stubble on his cheeks and chin were patchy. But his features tickled Alyce's memories. Her narrowed eyes roved his person and his companions, searching for the first sign of deceit or ill will.

"You may rise," Dany said. "Daario tells me you come to us from Dorne. Dornishmen will always have a welcome at my court. Sunspear stayed loyal to my father when the Usurper stole his throne. You must have faced many perils to reach me."

"Too many," said Gerrold, the handsome one. "We were six when we left Dorne, Your Grace."

"I am sorry for your losses." She turned to his companion. "Greenguts is a queer sort of name."

"A jape, Your Grace. From the ships. I was greensick the whole way from Volantis. Heaving and…well, I shouldn't say."

Dany giggled. "I think that I can guess, ser. It is _ser_ , is it not? Daario tells me that you are a knight."

"If it please Your Grace, we are all three knights."

Dany glanced at Daario and Alyce saw anger flash across the captain's face.

 _He did not know._

"I have need of knights," the queen said to them.

Ser Barristan spoke up from beside Alyce. "Knighthood is easily claimed this far from Westeros. Are you prepared to defend that boast with sword and lance?"

"If need be," said Gerrold, "though I will not claim that any of us is the equal of Barristan the Bold. Your Grace, I beg your pardon, but we have come before you under false names."

"I knew someone else who did that once. His named was Arstan Whitebeard. Tell me your true names, then."

"Gladly…but if we may beg the queen's indulgence, is there some place with fewer eyes and ears?"

Dany's mouth set a litter harder, but she replied, "As you wish. Skahaz, clear my court."

The Shavepate roared out orders. His Brazen Beasts did the rest, herding the other Westerosi and the rest of the day's petitioners from the hall. Her counselors remained.

"Now," Dany said, "your names."

Handsome young Gerrold bowed. "Ser Gerris Drinkwater, Your Grace. My sword is yours."

Greenguts crossed his arms against his chest. "And my Warhammer. I'm Ser Archibald Yronwood."

 _Knights and nobles of Sunspear_. Alyce looked again at the boy with them. _Is this boy they guard…?_

"And you, ser?" Daenerys was asking the boy, the one the others called Frog.

"If it please Your Grace, may I first present my gift?"

"If you wish." Daenerys was curious, but Alyce and Daario were both suspicious.

"Give this gift to me," the captain commanded of the boy, stepping in front of him and holding out a gloved hand. Stone-faced, the stocky lad bent, unlaced his boot, and drew a yellowed parchment from a hidden flap within.

"This is your gift? A scrap of writing?" Daario snatched the parchment out of the Dornishman's hands as Alyce relaxed.

Daario unrolled it quickly, squinting at it. "Very pretty, all the gold and ribbons, but I do not read your Westerosi scratchings."

"Bring it to the queen," Ser Barristan commanded. "Now."

There was anger in the hall. Ser Barristan was angry at Daario, though Alyce felt a bit relieved at his rude interference. There could have been a dagger hiding in the scroll. The Dornishmen were furious with Daario, and he again with them.

"I am only a young girl, and young girls must have their gifts," Dany said lightly. "Daario, you must not tease me. Give it here."

The parchment was written in the Common Tongue. Dany's eyes traced over the seals and signatures which Alyce could not read from her place. The queen appeared to read it twice.

"May we know what it says, Your Grace?" asked Ser Barristan.

"It is a secret pact," Dany said, "made in Braavos when I was just a little girl. Ser William Darry signed for us, the man who spirited by brother and myself away from Dragonstone before the Usurper's men could take us. Prince Oberyn Martell signed for Dorne, with the Sealord of Braavos as witness." She held out the parchment to Ser Barristan so he might read it himself. Alyce inspected the parchment from beside him. Dany continued, "The alliance is to be sealed by marriage, it says. In return for Dorne's help overthrowing the Usurper, my brother Viserys is to take Prince Doran's daughter Arianne for his queen."

Ser Barristan read over the pact slowly. As he read, Alyce looked again at the boy, coming to conclusions. She whispered to Barristan, "We have a Frog Prince among us." She was quiet enough that only the closest knight—Ser Archibald—heard her. He glanced at her, but the boy had not heard and neither had the queen.

Ser Barristan told Daenerys, "If Robert had known of this, he would have smashed Sunspear as he once smashed Pyke, and claimed the heads of Prince Doran and the Red Viper…and like as not, the head of this Dornish princess too."

"No doubt that was why Prince Doran chose to keep the pact a secret," suggested Dany. "If my brother Viserys had known that he had a Dornish princess waiting for him, he would have crossed to Sunspear as soon as he was old enough to wed."

"And thereby brought Robert's warhammer down upon himself, and Dorne as well," said the boy called Frog, the prince of Dorne, though Alyce could not remember his name. "My father was content to wait for the day that Prince Viserys found his army."

"Your father?"

"Prince Doran." The boy sank to one knee. He was of an age with Daenerys, perhaps only a year older or younger. "Your Grace, I have the honor to be Quentyn Martell, a prince of Dorne and your most leal subject."

Dany laughed.

The Dornish prince flushed red, whilst Dany's councilors gave her puzzled looks. Alyce frowned at her. She did not understand why this was a laughing matter. It was not wise of her to shame Dorne, especially when it comes all this way to drop to one knee before her.

"They call him Frog," Dany said, "and we have just learned why. In the Seven Kingdoms, there are children's tales of frogs who turn into princes when kissed by their true love. Tell me, Prince Quentyn, are you enchanted?"

"No, Your Grace."

"I feared as much. You have come for a kiss, however. You mean to marry me. Is that the way of it? The gift you bring me is your own sweet self. Instead of Viserys and your sister, you and I must seal this pact if I want Dorne."

Alyce allowed herself a small smile. What a sweet gift. This Hizdahr has no luck, and the Sons of the Harpy would have to be dealt with in a different manner entirely. Here was Dorne on a platter. A home, a landing, and protectors for Daenerys in the Seven Kingdoms. Alyce gave another look to the boy prince. Not much to look at, but the Dornish were a fiery and righteous house. They ruled well, and not without wisdom. Or _cunning_ , some would say. They would make true allies, connected to her and her plight through the blood of Rhaegar's murdered wife.

"My father hoped you might find me acceptable," Prince Quentyn replied courteously.

Daario Naharis gave a scornful laugh. "I say you are a pup. The queen needs a man beside her, not a mewling boy. You are not fit husband for a woman such as her."

Ser Gerris Drinkwater had darkened at his words. "Mind your tongue, sellsword. You are speaking to a Prince of Dorne."

"And to his wetnurse, I am thinking." Daario brushes his thumbs across his sword hilts and smiled dangerously.

His absurd and brutish discourtesy made Alyce furious. "You disgrace yourself, Naharis," she snapped like a cold wind. She wished to say more, but knew he might leap at her, and she did not wish to create a scene in Daenerys' court. _He knows nothing of Westeros and would hold his tongue if he were less of an ignorant prick._

He sent her a fearsome look, but Skahaz was speaking before he could. "This boy might serve for Dorne, but Meereen needs a king of Ghiscari blood."

"I know of this Dorne," said Reznak mo Reznak. "Dorne is sand and scorpions, and bleak red mountains baking in the sun."

Prince Quentyn answered him. "Dorne is fifty thousand spears and swords, pledged to our queen's service."

"Fifty thousand?" mocked Daario. "I count three."

" _Enough_ ," Daenerys said. "Prince Quentyn has crossed half the world to offer me his gift—I will not have him treated with discourtesy." She turned to the Dornishmen and what she told them made Alyce frown. "Would that you had come a year ago. I am pledged to wed the noble Hizdahr zo Loraq."

Ser Gerris said, "It is not too late—"

"I will be the judge of that," Daenerys said. "Reznak, see that the prince and his companions are given quarters suitable to their high birth, and that all their wants are attended to."

"As you wish, Your Radiance."

The queen rose. "We are done for now."

Daario, Ser Barristan, Missandei, and Alyce followed her up the steps to her apartments.

"This changes everything," Ser Barristan said.

"This changes nothing," Dany replied without heat as Irri removed her crown. Alyce stared at her, her eyes going wide. "What good are three men?"

"Three liars," Daario interjected darkly. "They deceived me."

"And bought you too, I do not doubt." Ser Barristan's distaste was plain and Daario did not even trouble to deny it.

"Three _knights_ ," Alyce argued against him. The fact that Daenerys had not immediately leapt for joy at this new revelation of Dorne's loyalty to her was past her understanding. "Prince Quentyn's aunt was _Elia of Dorne_ , Prince Rhaegar's princess and—Your Grace—your goodsister. Dorne is as close to family in Westeros as you have. They have power, money, arms, and they would take you in like a beloved long-lost daughter. They would provide you a place to land in Westeros in safety. A home. A starting place from which to conquer."

The young queen had unrolled the scroll and was reading it again, her eyes far away. Alyce feared she was not truly hearing her.

"Ser Barristan," she asked, "what are the arms of House Martell?"

"A sun in splendor, transfixed by a spear."

Dany appeared to shiver. "The sun's son… Shadows and whispers."

"Your Grace?"

"Beware the perfumed seneschal." It seemed as if they were no longer there and the young queen was speaking to herself alone. "Dreams and prophesies. Why must they always be in riddles? I hate this. Oh, leave me."

Daario hesitated to leave with them as if wondering if she meant for him as well, or if he were exempt. But Daenerys ignored his eyes and he left with Ser Barristan, Alyce, and the handmaidens.

Alyce had been expecting retribution for her scolding of Daario in the throne room, and so she was ready when halfway down the lavish hall, the sellsword turned on her. He reached for her neck with one arm and a blade with the other, wishing to shame her, as he opened his mouth for a scathing reprimand. But she blocked his hand with her arm and rammed her knee up between his legs. She could have done so harder, but she imagined the queen would have been upset had she damaged his faculties. With her other hand, she drew a sharp knife and swiftly sliced off his leather swordbelt so his weapons tumbled to the rug, clanking. By this time, Ser Barristan had drawn his longsword and was bellowing for them to separate.

Daario was too wild to be stilled by the touch of steel to his flesh, so Alyce did not attempt it, but she did close her fist around her knife handle and crack the arrogant scum with a solid right cross across his absurd blue-bearded jaw. He stumbled back, cursing her foully and reaching for one of his fallen weapons. The handmaidens were shrieking. Ser Barristan stepped between them with a roar.

"STOP THIS!" he thundered, his sword pointed at Daario and one hand held toward Alyce. They both glared across the space at one another like brawling schoolchildren. A dozen scalding, nasty curses jumped to Alyce's lips, but she would not behave like a Fleabottom bastard child in front of Ser Barristan the Bold. Instead she hissed, composing herself coldly, "You are a brute and a fool, Naharis, and Queen Daenerys degrades herself to give you such leeway."

Daario began a scathing retort as only he could spit, but Ser Barristan thundered over him, his voice like a storm in the hall: "You will not find this woman an easy target for such retribution, captain, and Her Grace will hear of your attack on one of her personal guards. Shall she hear you fought both of us, or will she hear you let your offense go?"

Daario struggled with himself a moment, his lip dripping blood and his weapons held tightly in now-white knuckles.

"I mean you no ill, Ser Grandfather," he announced, feinting a sort of careless flourish of apathy, "but your pet _snake_ is another matter."

"She is the queen's and you shall not touch her," Ser Barristan commanded, his voice colder and fiercer than Alyce had heard before.

"As you say. Sleep well, little snake." He left them, his usual saunter stiff.

"Did he hurt you?" Missandei asked in her quiet voice after he was gone.

"No, little one. I know his kind and am always ready for their tricks." She touched the girl's small, smooth cheek with a finger affectionately, trying to keep her face clear. Her heart was pounding with the jumping, urgent beating it always did after fighting. Irri and Jhiqui were muttering things to one another in Dothraki. They slipped away, likely to relay such happenings to their _khaleesi_.

Ser Barristan was stony-faced. "I had expected his antagonism, but not for him to attack you. I will speak to Her Grace."

The three of them began to walk down the hall again, hopefully toward dinner. Alyce was hungry.

"Insults from a man he could have taken better," Alyce replied, sighing. "I should have known to hold my tongue in the throne room, but his behavior toward Prince Quentyn made me furious."

Barristan was nodding, disgust in his face as well. "I felt similarly."

"He doesn't have the manners for a throne room. He never will. He can only disgrace Her Grace if allowed in places he does not have the qualities for."

 _But she is determined to have him there. And his boldness grows with every passing week._ The words went unspoken between them.

"He is a danger to you now," Barristan told her in a low voice. "He is formidable as an enemy, and you have made him angry."

Alyce knew so already and wariness has already sunk down into her. _Every turn in the hallways will be a danger now._ "I regret it, but I cannot change it. I will not walk the halls alone from now on."

Ser Barristan looked grim and unhappy. While Missandei returned to her queen, he and Alyce took their supper in room open to Meereen through its open columns.

…


	26. XII: Collars and Capers

…

XII.

Collars and Capers

 **T** he Yunkish encampment was not one camp but a hundred camps raised up cheek by jowl in a crescent around the walls of Meereen.

Between the siege lines and the bay, tents had sprouted up like yellow mushrooms. Some were small and mean, no more than a flap of old stained canvas to keep off the sun, but beside them stood barracks tents large enough to sleep a hundred men and silken pavilions as big as palaces with harpies gleaming atop their roof poles. Some camps were orderly, with the tents arrayed around a fire pit in concentric circles, weapons and armor stacked around the inner ring, horse lines outside. Elsewhere, pure chaos seemed to reign.

Tyrion Lannister walked the encampment with Penny, Jorah Mormont, and Nurse, their new master's overseer. Nurse had a long narrow face, a chin beard bound about with golden wire, and stiff black hair swept out from his temples to form a pair of taloned hands.

Tyrion, Penny, and Jorah Mormont were the property of Yezzan zo Qaggaz, a Master of Yunkai. Now slaves, the two dwarfs wore heavy gilded iron collars around their necks with Yezzan's name incised into the metal in Valyrian glyphs. A pair of tiny bells were affixed to them, so the wearer's every step produced a merry little tinkling sound. Mormont wore no collar; instead, a demon-mask slave tattoo had been branded into his cheek.

The dry, scorched plains around Meereen were flat and bare and treeless for long leagues, but the Yunkish ships had brought lumber and hides up from the south, enough to raise six huge trebuchets. They were arrayed on three sides of the city, all but the river side, surrounded by piles of broken stone and casks of pitch and resin just waiting for a torch. One of the soldiers walking along beside the cart saw Tyrion was looking and proudly told him that each of the trebuchets had been given a name: Dragonbreaker, Harridan, Harpy's Daughter, Wicked Sister, Ghost of Astapor, Mazdhan's Fist. Towering above the tents to a height of forty feet, the trebuchets were the siege camp's chief landmarks. "Just the sight of them drove the dragon queen to her knees," he boasted. "And there she will stay, sucking Hizdahr's noble cock, else we will smash her walls to rubble."

Tyrion saw a slave being whipped, blow after blow, until his back was nothing but blood and raw meat. A file of men marched past in irons, clanking with every step; they carried spears and wore shortswords, but chains linked them wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle. The air smelled of roasting meat, and he saw one man skinning a dog for his stewpot.

He saw the dead as well, and heard the dying. Under the drifting smoke, the smell of horses, and the sharp salt tang of the bay was a stink of blood and shit. The flux, he realized, as he watched two sellswords carry the corpse of a third from one of the tents. That made his fingers twitch. Disease could wipe out an army quicker than any battle, he had heard his father say once.

All the more reason to escape, and soon.

A quarter mile on, he found good reason to reconsider. A crowd had formed around three slaves taken whilst trying to escape.

"I know my little treasures will be sweet and obedient," Nurse said. "See what befalls ones who try to run."

The captives had been tied to a row of crossbeams, and a pair of slingers were using them to test their skills. "Tolosi," one of the guards told them. "The best slingers in the world. They throw soft lead balls in place of stones."

Tyrion had never seen the point of slings, when bows had so much better range…but he had never seen the Tolosi at work before. Their lead balls did last vastly more damage than the smooth stones other slingers used, and more than any bow as well. One struck the knee of one of the captives, and it burst apart in a gout of blood and bone that left the man's lower leg dangling by a rope of dark red tendon. _Well he won't run again_ , Tyrion allowed, as the man began to scream. His sheiks mingled in the morning mist with the laughter of the camp followers and the curses of those who'd wagered good coin that the slinger would miss. Penny looked away, but Nurse grasped her under the chin and twisted her head back around. "Watch," he commanded. "You too, bear."

Jorah Mormont raised his head and stared at Nurse. Tyrion could see the tightness in his arms. _He's going to throttle him, and that will be the end for all of_ _us_. But the knight only grimaced, then turned to watch the bloody show.

To the east, the massive brick walls of Meereen shimmered through the morning heat. The refuge hundreds of poor fools had followed the last Targaryen to was closed and barred now.

All three of the would-be escapees were dead before Nurse gathered up the reins again. The mule cart rumbled on.

Mormont paid no mind to the mongrel crowd. Even in chains with a slave's brand, the knight looked dangerous. A hulking brute with big, thick arms and sloped shoulders, the coarse dark hair on this chest made him look more beast than man. Both his eyes were blackened; two dark pits in that grotesquely swollen face. His eyes were fixed beyond the siege lines, on the distant city with its ancient walls of many-colored brick. Tyrion could read that look as easy as a book: so near and yet so distant. _Mhysa_ , the slaves called her. Someone had told him that meant _Mother_. The slaves whispered that soon the silver queen would come forth from her city, smash the Yunkai'i, and break their chains.

Tyrion had no faith in royal rescues. If need be, he would see to their deliverance himself.

Their master's camp was south and east of the Harridan, almost in its shadow, and spread over several acres. The tents of Yezzan zo Qaggaz were a sprawl of lemon-colored silk. Gilded harpies sat on top the center poles of each peaked roof, shining in the sun. Lesser tents ringed it on all sides.

Nurse left them at their tent—a small carpeted space large enough for four to sleep. Beside them, other tents housed the others in Yezzan's grotesquerie collection: a boy with twisted, hairy "goat legs," a two-headed girl out of Mantarys, a bearded woman, and a willowy creature called Sweets who dressed in moonstones and Myrish lace and possessed the genitalia of both a man and a woman. The bearded woman spoke in an incomprehensible variety of Ghiscari, the goat boy some guttural sailor's pigeon called trade talk. The two-headed girl was feeble minded; one head was no bigger than an orange and did not speak at all, the other had filed teeth and was like to growl at anyone who came too close to her cage. But Sweets was fluid in four languages, one of them High Valyrian.

They had been bathed, given plain but clean clothes to wear, soft slippers, and their many wounds, cuts, and Tyrion's lashes had been cleaned and attended to. Penny's hair was cut, and Tyrion's beard received a trim.

As evening fell, Nurse returned to tell them that it was time to down their mummer's plate. Yezzan would be hosting the Yunkish supreme commander, the noble Yurkhaz zo Yunzak, and they would be expected to perform. "Shall we unchain your bear?"

"Not this night," Tyrion said. "Let us joust for our master first and save the bear for some other time."

"Just so. After your capers are concluded, you will help serve and pour. See that you do not spill on the guests, or it will go ill for you."

A juggler began the evening's frolics. Then came a trio of energetic tumblers. After them the goat-legged boy came out and did a grotesque jig whilst one of Yurkhaz's slaves played on a bone flute. Tyrion had half a mind to ask him if he knew "The Rains of Castamere."

As they waited their own turn to perform, he watched Yezzan and his guests. The human prune in the place of honor was evidently the supreme commander, who looked about as formidable as loose stool. A dozen other Yunkish lords attended him. Two sellsword captains were on hand as well, each accompanied by a dozen men of his company. One was an elegant Pentoshi, grey-haired and clad and silk but for his cloak, a ragged thing sewn from dozens of strips of torn, bloodstained cloth. The other captain was a man who had tried to buy them that morning, the brown-skinned bidder with the salt-and-pepper beard. "Brown Ben Plumm," Sweets named him. "Captain of the Second Sons."

 _A Westerosi and a Plumm._

"You are next," Nurse informed them. "Be amusing, my little darlings, or you will wish you had."

Tyrion had not mastered half of Groat's old tricks, but he could ride the sow, fall off when he was meant to, roll, and pop back onto his feet. All of that proved well received. The sight of little people running about drunkenly and whacking at one another with wooden weapons appeared to be just as hilarious in a siege camp by Slaver's Bay as at Joffrey's wedding feast in King's Landing. _Contempt_ , thought Tyrion, _the universal tongue_.

Their master Yazzan laughed loudest and longest whenever one of his dwarfs suffered a fall or took a blow, his whole vast body shaking like suet in an earthquake. His guests waited to see how Yurkhaz no Yunzak responded before joining in. The supreme commander appeared so frail that Tyrion was afraid laughing might kill him. When Penny's helm was struck off and flew into the lap of a sour-faced Yunkishman in a striped green-and-gold _tokar_ , Yurkhaz cackled like a chicken. When said lord reached inside the helm and drew out a large purple melon dribbling pulp, he wheezed until his face turned the same color as the fruit. He turned to his host and whispered something that made their master chortle and lick his lips…though there was a hint of anger in those little yellow eyes, it seemed to Tyrion.

Afterward the dwarfs stripped off their wooden armor and the sweat-soaked clothing beneath and changed into the fresh yellow tunics that had been provided them for serving. Tyrion was given a flagon of purple wine, Penny of flagon of water. They moved about the tent filling cups, their slippered feet whispering over thick carpets. It was harder work than it appeared. Before long his legs were cramping badly, and one of the cuts on his back had begun to bleed again, the red seeping through the yellow linen of his tunic. Tyrion bit his tongue and kept on pouring.

Most of the guests paid them no more mind than they did the other slaves…but one Yunkishman declared drunkenly that Yezzan should make the two dwarfs fuck, and another demanded to know how Tyrion got his scar. _I shoved my face in your wife's cunt and found a dagger there_ , he almost replied…but the storm had persuaded him that he did not want to die as yet, so instead he said, "It was cut off to punish me for insolence, lord."

Their gargantuan master fell into a drunken sleep during the games following the last course, his goblet slipping from his yellowed fingers to spill its contents on the carpet, but perhaps he would be pleased when he awakened.

When the supreme commander Yurkhaz departed, supported by a pair of burly slaves, that seemed to be a general signal for the other guests to take their leave as well. After the tent had emptied out, Nurse reappeared to tell the servers that they might make their own feast from the leavings. "Eat quickly. All this must be clean again before you sleep."

Tyrion was on his knees, his legs aching and his bloody back screaming with pain, trying to scrub out the stain that the noble Yezzan's spilled wine had left upon the noble Yezzan's carpet, when the overseer tapped his cheek gently with the end of his whip. "Yollo. You have done well. You and your wife."

"She's not my wife."

"Your whore, then."

Tyrion scrubbed the stain with a gargoyle grimace as Nurse walked away from him. The weight of the iron collar made his neck ache viciously. Blood ran down his lower back. _Somewhere a god is laughing_.

…

"I reminded him that he slings enough insults to make it poor form for him to become so irritable over yours," Dany told her, frowning. "I forbade him from touching you again with hand or weapon."

"Thank you." Alyce kicked away the silken bedfittings on Daenerys' wide bed. The night was warm and the girls whispered so as to not wake the little scribe Missandei who was sleeping curled on a divan near the bedchamber terrace where the breeze came in. "I apologize for making him slightly less pretty for a while."

Dany smiled indulgently. "I am giving him the small punishment that he is bereft of my company tonight. You will share my bed instead." She put an arm behind her head. "Ser Barristan told me Daario meant to grab you by the throat, but you blocked him and attacked in response. Did you really slice his swordbelt in two?"

"He is in need of another," was Alyce's cool reply. Dany's eyebrows rose.

"He was not here when you threatened me that first day," she said. "He did not know your speed or skill."

"He knows now."

"But you shan't hurt him again," she said, growing serious. "I will not allow or forgive it."

Alyce glanced at her, and the corner of her mouth lifted slightly. "Aye."

"Even Dario would have said ' _Yes, my_ _queen_ ,' you impudent thing," Dany scolded softly.

The start of a soft laugh passed Alyce's lips. "I'm supposed to call you 'Your Grace' in the times we trade whispers like this?" Dany lay on her stomach beside her, bare to the waist, while Alyce ran her hand up and down her bare back. "Any other time, for sure and certain, but not these. In the dark you could be my _nina_ , my little sister."

Dany seemed pleased by that. "You'd make a fearsome _ohni_." 'Elder sister' in High Valyrian.

"Aye." Alyce scratched her back, but Dany sat up a little.

She asked, "Is this _sisterly affection_ all you feel for me?" There was a playful smirk on her delicate face. Alyce smirked in response, enjoying the queen's teasing.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," she replied with teasing aloofness in her air. "It depends on my mood at the time."

"Wench."

Alyce sniggered and hauled the girl close against her, tucked against her chest. Dany settled her head and they were quiet for a time while she traced little patterns on Alyce's hard, muscled stomach with her fingertips.

Dany murmured in a different tone of voice, "If your lord does arrive at my gates with Ser Jorah…I do not know if I should even receive Ser Jorah. I sent him from me on threat of death should I see him again."

"How did you find out he was informing on you?"

"Ser Barristan knew of his allegiances from his time at court under the Usurper."

"Both Barristan and Mormont worked for King Robert. Why forgive one and not the other?"

Dany shifted, frowning. "After both truths came out, I sent them both into the sewers of Meereen to take the city. A sort of punishment—and a test of their devotion. When they delivered me the city, Ser Barristan begged my forgiveness with humility and respect. But Ser Jorah insisted that I _owed_ him forgiveness because of his past service and the many times he had saved my life. I had intended to forgive him all along, but after that… His presumption awoke my temper." Her body had grown stiff. "Ser Jorah always saw me as… He saw me as a little girl and then he began to see me as a lover sees another. But never did he see me as a queen."

Alyce nodded. "You knew of his feelings and were fond of him, yet you saw how his behavior undermined you and you made a decision worthy of a firm ruler. You were in the right. Yet, I think if you refuse to receive him when he returns, you won't be able to decide whether or not he has found the humility he needed before."

"And your dwarf lord?" Dany demanded softly, turning to prop herself on her elbow to look at her. "The brother in law of the Usurper who murdered my family? Is he to be received with courtesy?"

"That is for you to decide."

Dany looked unconvinced of the sincerity of that statement. She rolled her eyes slightly. "I will receive him because you have made me curious, but do not think him safe, regardless of your vows. I would be a fool to so easily trust all these old friends of my enemy."

"You trust Ser Barristan with your life."

"And you with it as well, though you are Lord Varys'." She slipped into a frown.

"All those from Westeros you will meet lived under King Robert and pledged allegiance to him. You will not be able to find any true loyalists to you. All kingdoms had to bend the knee. But with him dead, the Lannisters have shown their true colors to be bloody and unjust. Many have turned from them, including Varys, Barristan, Jorah, Tyrion, and myself." She looked away from the queen. "Children can want different things than their parents. Blood does not always tell."

"Children? Are you speaking of Tyrion again? I told you already I would hear him."

"And…myself as well."

Dany tilted her head back to look at her. "Your blood? What do you mean?"

Alyce steeled herself. _Better now from mine own lips than from Ser Barristan when he finally realizes where he has seen my eyes before._

The betrayal in Dany's face if she were to find out from someone else was something Alyce never wanted to see.

 _Better she know now. She deserves the truth._

"I did not intend to tell you because I worried for my safety," Alyce murmured, her voice low. She did not meet Dany's eyes. "But now that you…now that we are closer than I assumed we would be…I don't think it right to conceal my parentage to you any longer. I would not wish for you to find out from someone else and think that I was trying to deceive you. I…"

Daenerys' eyes had hardened to purple stones in the dimness of the single candle lit across the room. Her body was rigid. "Your father?"

"I never spoke to him, Your Grace. I…I cannot help who sired me—"

"Name him."

Alyce sat up in bed with her arms around her legs. She could not look at the queen while she admitted the truth. But before she could answer, Dany whispered in a shocked voice, "You're _his_ , aren't you? Robert Baratheon's."

"He fucked my mother, but that does not make me his." Alyce's jaw was set hard. She had begun to love this girl in her way, and now that time was likely done. "But yes, I am one of his many bastard children."

Daenerys was silent for a long time, her jaw working, her purple eyes like cut gems, the skin around them tight and angry.

Finally she whispered in a hard voice, "You should have admitted it to me sooner."

"Most people would never have told you." Alyce scratched viciously at an itch on her arm. "I didn't want to sleep in your arms anymore without you knowing. So you know. And that's all my damned secrets."

"Not all," Dany snapped. "You're in love with Tyrion."

Alyce closed her eyes with a grimace. "Seven hells. Fine. _Yes_. _That's_ all my secrets." She rubbed at her face. But the queen was not commanding she be thrown back into a cell. Yet. Hope that perhaps Daenerys would not look her up somewhere in the pyramid bloomed tentatively inside her.

The queen sighed. "You are not a large enough _lackwit_ to tell me of your parentage if you were plotting against me. But it is still… _unsavory_."

Alyce nodded. "I understand. I can excuse myself if you wish."

Dany sighed heavily, as if weary of the world. "Just be quiet for a while."

Alyce lay back down beside the queen and the two gave court to their own thoughts for a while. At length, as the candle began to flicker and gutter out, Dany murmured, "You are here with me because I'm fond of your strength and wit and even your insolence, and I've trusted you since that first day when you could have sliced my throat open and did not."

Alyce hauled the girl into her arms again and put her mouth to her forehead. "No one will harm you tonight while I am beside you."

They slept.

…


	27. XIII: Ashen Chains

…

XIII.

Ashen Chains

 **T** he pale pink morning sun found Irri, Jhiqui, and Missandei climbing into the wide bed with them to wake their queen for the new morning. Alyce stirred, Dany's head heavy on her shoulder and neck. She pushed the girl's gossamer hair away from her chin as she oriented herself.

"You have too much hair," she mumbled. Dany and Missandei giggled. Jhiqui climbed off the bed again to find clothes for her _khaleesi_. Dany grasped a small fist of Alyce's thick, short hair and shook her head gently, smiling.

"You have too little."

"Missandei's is just right." Alyce hauled the little girl down onto them both and the child broke into a tinkle of delighted giggles.

"This one thinks her queen has beautiful hair," the tiny girl said, touching Dany's silver-blonde waves with love. Dany touched her on her nose affectionately. Alyce rolled out of the bed to give Jhiqui her warm place by Dany's side. She pulled on her outer layer of clothes that were folded on the floor and fastened on her swordbelt. She could hear movement within the pyramid and wished to be fully clothed should any guards or councilmen drop in to see the queen.

Alyce needed to relieve herself, so she visited Dany's privy before she rejoined the girls outside on the queen's terrace. The handmaidens had clothed her, and Jhiqui was brushing out her hair. Alyce gazed at the ships out on Slaver's Bay and the white foam of its many sails. It sobered her thoughts. She ran a hand through her hair and touched her left hand to the dirk on her hip.

Irri went to call for their breakfast, and the girls broke their fast together on the terrace as the pink dawn colors faded and darkened into oranges and yellows.

When they finished, two Unsullied men came to give Daenerys the night's report. As they spoke, Alyce went into her adjacent room to apply lotion to her calf. The scar was smoother than the rest of her skin, tight, thick, and lighter in color. The lost flesh had not grown back, but the muscle she had rebuilt up since had caused the flesh around the scar to bulge slightly. It was an ugly addition to her leg, but it served. It still felt tight when she stretched, and was prone to aches after a long day, but Alyce knew eventually she would be none the less for it. As the lotion soaked in, she rubbed in more.

When she was finished, she changed her underclothes and washed her face in the washroom down the hall. She hummed "Boots of Myrish Leather."

 _Oh, I got a letter on a lonesome day,  
It was from her ship a-sailing,  
Saying 'I don't know when I'll be coming back again,  
It depends on how I'm feeling.'_

Daenerys' daily duties used to be of fascination to her, but now after months of it, Alyce had no desire to accompany the queen throughout her day. A spar with Ser Barristan would have been ideal, but he was usually busy in the mornings overseeing guard and soldiering duties. There had been no more attacks by the Sons of the Harpy either within the palace or in the city since Hizdahr had made his promise, but the Unsullied still kept a strict eye.

Meereen was still free for the nonce, and no man or woman was named slave, but Alyce knew on instinct that the "servants" of the great masters were slaves in all but name, and the "volunteers" that would be fighting in the Great Pit of Daznak after Daenerys' wedding had been given no true choice in the matter. Ancient ways were not easy to change. If Daenerys had massacred all the great masters when she first took the city, that might have been a different matter, but she left too many in positions of power, resenting her, and in positions to work against her. She had not wished to be a butcher queen, but now she was paying the price of that mercy.

Alyce wandered the corridors and halls, paying visits to her favorite rooms, balconies, and galleries. With her she took one guard, the boy who had grown fond of her since the beginning of her stay in Daenerys' sitting room, even though she wished to be alone. He wore a khukuri knife, a weapon suited for close quarters, and she knew he could wield it well. Despite Daenerys' reassurances that Daario would not again harm her, she knew the sellsword was capable of working through others if he truly wished to punish her. His volatility made his intents difficult to predict.

Alyce did exercises in the shade of an upper floor awning and took a few hours to study Ghiscari and Meereenese, languages she was becoming much more knowledgeable of. She took her midday meal in the study, then after a bath, she donned her mail and light armor and went in search of Ser Barristan.

She found him in one of the queen's council chambers, though the queen herself was not present. He, Grey Worm, and the Shavepate were talking over bits of parchment. A map of Meereen lay spread across one corner of the meeting table, weighed open with paperweights but ignored for the moment. Alyce's guard left her.

She took up a chair and listened to the end of their meeting, then she was left with Ser Barristan. The old knight took up his longsword from where it leaned against the table and belted it back on as they left the chamber for the gallery they usually used to spar.

"I should have seen it," he told her as they walked. "You have his eyes. Renly's as well—I think you remind me more of Renly."

Alyce was silent.

"But I do not think I would have been able to guess it." He was frowning.

"Have you met any of his other children?"

"I cannot say I have. I have heard of the one housed at Storm's End, but that is all."

"I've been told I am more similar to them than to the man himself."

"Queen Cersei's bastard raid was not as successful as she believed, it seems."

"Some, like Mya Stone and the Storm's End boy are out of her reach. Varys protected me and perhaps others as well. Though many died, it's true. Young ones and a babe at the breast. I heard of it from friends in the city." She glanced at him. "Anything that the crown ordered of Varys he chose for himself whether or not to do, or how far. Queen Daenerys is only alive because he was in charge of seeing her killed. He warped a great many royal dictates."

Ser Barristan had a deep frown. "His treasonous behavior does not exactly commend him."

Alyce shrugged. "We all must abide by what we believe is right to do."

"You did not wish to make the same mistake as Ser Jorah."

"Aye." Alyce grimaced, sighing. "Enough secrets have been kept from the little queen. You, Ser Jorah, Ben Plumm, now me. But all Westerosi who join her cause will have once been Robert's. He was the king. All held fealty to him."

"True enough."

They had reached the gallery down flights of steps. Alyce wished to ask him about Daenerys' plans for the Dornish prince and whether or not she was going to back out of her betrothal in favor of that alliance, but she did not wish to cast more suspicion upon herself. She could not seem as if she wished to influence the queen, else her privilege to remain near her might swiftly be revoked.

She and Ser Barristan took up arms and tested themselves against each other in a now-familiar dance as the knight barked instructions or praise to her. They were alone today, and kept at their mock battle until the knight grew weary. Alyce was soaking with sweat beneath her armor. Ser Barristan escorted her back to the washrooms near Daenerys' apartments and left her to wash and cool down from their bout. Alyce slipped naked into a tub, sighing. Her calf ached only a little. She closed her eyes.

…

"Do you ever eat _anything_ other than fruit?" Dany demanded with a teasing smile.

Alyce's mouth was full of sweet pear slices and she dipped her head and covered her mouth with her hand to swallow ungracefully, her laugh lines showing as she struggled to both laugh and swallow. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and completed her show of accidental horrid manners by teasingly licking off the fruit juice from the back of her hand with a flourish. Dany split into laughter, scrunching up her delicate nose in distaste.

Alyce admitted, "King's Landing never sees any fruit. I mean, what little comes in is always for the nobles. The common people have only ever tasted berries, apples, grapes, and figs, and that only when they're in season. The city has no orchards inside the walls and few enough gardens. It all has to come in from outside." Alyce looked across the room at a shelf of scrolls. "I _knew_ of oranges and melon, but had never had any until I went to the Reach, and I didn't know what pears were until then, even, nor peaches until I visited Dorne. Bananas? Pineapples? Dates and whatever these green ones are? I have only now discovered these under your hospitality."

"Those are kiwis, I believe." Dany's face had grown somber at her words.

"Growing up as a bastard by the bay—I know everything about the fruit of the sea, but real fruit is an luxury to me. I eat it like I won't ever get the chance to again."

Dany nodded. "I didn't know."

"No way for you to have known. Your Grace," she added on. Ser Baristan was attending them in the council chamber as they took a late breakfast before Daenerys' men joined them. Alyce was sometimes asked to step out of such meetings, especially if Daario was in attendance, and today seemed to be such a time.

As the Shavepate, Grey Worm, and others began to arrive, Ser Barristan nodded to Alyce and she bowed gracefully and took her leave.

The door between her room and the queen's was only ever barred these days while Daario and Dany were sharing a bed, and so Alyce reclined under shade in the balcony with a poorly-bound but interesting Pentoshi book she had taken from a small library in the pyramid. The words captivated her for a time, but then she was tempted to again spend her time staring down into the streets below on one of the pyramid's lowest balconies, searching the heads of passerby below with a hungry, despairing gaze. But she had spent too long in the sun the previous day doing so and did not wish that her skin should begin to peel. She focused again on her reading.

Behind her within the bedchamber, servants tidied the room and the bedfittings and Irri and Jhiqui bossed them about. Missandei lounged in her favorite divan with a scroll of her own. The two had been teaching the little scribe the Dothraki tongue to add to her incredible knowledge of languages, and the little girl would glance up with amusement whenever the two got distracted bickering good-naturedly with one another.

"Missandei?" Alyce called to her.

"This one hears you." The girl put aside her scroll immediately and came to her side on the balcony. Alyce held out the book with her finger under a term she did not know.

"What is this word?"

"Ah, it is meaning fame, but for a bad thing."

"'Infamy.' It's Pentoshi for 'infamy?'"

"Yes, that is the word."

"Thank you, sweetling."

"This one is happy to be of help."

Not long after, Daenerys returned with Ser Barristan. Alyce put aside her book and took up a seat on the cushions within the chamber.

"…rogues and cutthroats," Ser Barristan was telling the queen in a slow, serious tone, "scum of a hundred battlefields, with captains full as treacherous as Plumm."

"It seems to me that we want them to be treacherous. Once, you'll recall, I convinced the Second Sons and Stormcrows to join us."

"I fear it would be a task for which I am not well suited. In King's Landing work of this sort was left to Littlefinger or the Spider. We old knights are simple men, only good for fighting." He patted his sword hilt.

"The Westerosi who came over from the Windblown with the three Dornishmen," suggested Dany. "We could use them. One was a woman. Merris. We could send her as a gesture. If their captain is a clever man, he will understand."

"The woman is the worst of all."

"All the better." Dany considered a moment. "We should sound out the Long Lances, too. And the Company of the Cat."

"Bloodbeard." Barristan's frown deepened. "If it please Your Grace, we want no part of him. Alyce could tell you. Your Grace is too young to remember the Ninepenny Kings, but this Bloodbeard is cut from the same savage cloth. There is no honor in him, only hunger…for gold, for glory, for blood."

"You know more of such men than me, ser. Do as you think best. But if Hizdahr's peace should break, I want to be ready. Even if the slavers accept peace with our marriage, they still may turn on me at the first sign of weakness."

"The Yunkai'i grow weaker as well. The bloody flux has taken hold amongst the Tolosi, it is said, and spread across the river to the third Ghiscari legion."

"I cannot rely on plague to save me from my enemies."

"Your Grace, if I may be so bold, there is another road…"

"The Dornish road?" Daenerys stood again, sighing and looking toward the open columned balcony. "The boy seems pleasant and well-spoken, but…"

"House Martell is ancient and noble, and has been a leal friend to House Targaryen for more than a century, Your Grace. I had the honor of serving with Prince Quentyn's great-uncle in your father's seven. Prince Lewyn was as valiant a brother-in-arms as any man could wish for. Quentyn Martell is of the same blood, if it please Your Grace."

"It would please me if he had turned up with these fifty thousand swords he speaks of. Instead he brings two knights and a parchment. Will a parchment shield my people from the Yunkai'i? If he had come with a fleet…"

"Sunspear has never been a sea power, Your Grace."

"No…"

Alyce watched the queen, keeping her silence. _Perhaps I am cold-hearted. I would not waste the power of a marriage alliance on these Meereenese people. Or on the Astapori. What of them?_ The queen's home, people, and throne were all in Westeros, not this dusty eastern land of slavers and masks. _Allying with Dorne would not help Meereen, but it is the wise play for the long goal. It is the better, safer, and more powerful alliance. She should be fighting for escape and to strike for Dorne's shores, not wedding herself to this waste._

"Dorne is too far away," Daenerys continued. "To please this prince, I would need to abandon all my people. You should send him home."

"Dornishmen are notoriously stubborn, Your Grace. Prince Quentyn's forebears fought your own for the better part of two hundred years. He will not go without you."

"Where is he?"

"With his knights in his apartments."

"Bring him to me. It is time he met my children."

A flicker of doubt passed across the long, solemn face of Barristan Selmy. "As you command."

Alyce had sat up straighter and when Barristan quitted the chamber, the queen turned to her. "You wish to see them as well, do you not?"

"Only if you wish it."

"You say your dwarf lord wishes to help me with the training of them. Now you will be able to warn him of them should he ever arrive." There was something dry and hard in the set of her face. Her expression was smooth and impassive—a ruler's face.

Ser Barristan was waiting by the steps with the Dornish prince when they left the apartments. Alyce wished again that the boy was more handsome. Daenerys was in that span of youth where the appeal of beauty reigns powerful. If his face had been more like his comely knight's, perhaps Daenerys would have more seriously considered his proposal. Alyce felt pity for him. She too had traveled the long journey from Westeros to the queen. Only to fail now… Likely the pressure of success weighed heavy on his young shoulders, and a rejection would be keenly and bitterly felt. _It would be a mistake._

Dany smiled at him. "My prince. It is a long way down. Are you certain that you wish to do this?"

"If it would please Your Grace."

"Then come."

A pair of Unsullied went down the steps before them, bearing torches; behind came two Brazen Beasts, one masked as a fish, the other as a hawk. Even here in her own pyramid, Ser Barristan insisted on the guards. Alyce knew he vastly preferred the Unsullied to the masked Beasts, but Dany had often argued that their loyalty could never be tested until they were given opportunity to prove it. Alyce trusted the old man's instincts and kept half an eye on the Beasts whenever they accompanied the queen.

The small company made the long descent in silence, stopping thrice to refresh themselves along the way.

"The dragon has three heads," Dany said when they were on the final flight. "My marriage need not be the end of all your hopes. I know why you are here."

"For you," said Quentyn, all awkward gallantry.

"No," said Dany, "for fire and blood."

Alyce had never been down to the underpyramid. It appeared to house far more than caged dragons—they entered into a wide and high stone hall flanked by hugely tall cells that housed animals as large as elephants. One of these elephants trumpeted at them from his stall. An answered roar from below quickened Alyce's blood with both excitement and instinctive dread. _A killer's roar._

Alarm showed in Prince Quentyn's face.

"The dragons know when she is near," Ser Barristan told them.

"They call to me," the queen said. "Come." She took Prince Quentyn by the hand and led him forward as the Unsullied were opening the huge iron doors. Alyce slipped in after them and Ser Barristan followed further behind.

They stood above a mighty stone pit. Alyce stopped breathing for a moment as she looked below. Below them, two young dragons, one white and one green, craned their necks around to gaze at them with burning eyes. They looked around ten or fifteen feet from wingtip to wingtip. Large enough already to burn a man alive where he stood. From what Tyrion had told her of dragonlore, she knew the beasts would get a great deal larger, but as they were now, they were sufficiently terrifying. One—the white one—had shattered its chain and melted the others. He clung to the roof of the pit like some huge white bat, his claws dug deep into the loose and crumbling bricks. The green, still chained, was gnawing on the charred carcass of a bull. The bones on the floor of the pit were deep and the walls and floor were black and grey with ash.

The Dornish prince had gone white. Alyce was not sure what color she had turned, if she had turned one. Her heart was pounding with a queer mix of awe and fear.

"I…I had heard that there were three," Quentyn said.

"Drogon is hunting. The white one is Viserion, the green is Rhaegal. I named them for my brothers." Her voice echoed off the scorched walls, sounding small and young.

Rhaegal roared in answer, and fire filled the pit, a spear of red and yellow. Viserion replied, his own flames gold and orange. When he flapped his wings, a cloud of grey ash filled the air. Broken chains clanked and clattered about his legs. Quentyn Martell jumped back a foot.

A crueler woman might have laughed at him, but Dany said kindly, "They frighten me as well. There is no shame in that. My children have grown wild and angry in the dark."

Alyce had flinched at the noise and flame, but had kept her composure better.

"You…you mean to ride them?" the boy questioned.

"One of them. All I know of dragons is what my brother told me when I was a girl, and some I read in books, but it is said that even Aegon the Conqueror never dared to mount Vhagar or Meraxes, nor did his sister ride Balerion the Black Dread. Dragons live longer than men, some for hundreds of years, so Balerion had other riders after Aegon died…but no rider ever flew two dragons."

Tyrion had spoken of the same. Alyce watched Viserion hiss again. Smoke rose between his teeth, and deep down in his throat she could see gold fire churning.

"They are fearsome creatures," said Quentyn.

"They are _dragons_ , Quentyn." Dany stood on her toes and kissed him lightly, once on each cheek. "And so am I."

The young prince swallowed. "I have the blood of the dragon in me as well, Your Grace. I can trace my lineage back to the first Daenerys, the Targaryen princess who was sister to King Daeron the Good and wife to the Prince of Dorne. He built the Water Gardens for her."

"My Kissing Snake has told me a little of the Water Gardens." She flickered her eyes to Alyce's briefly.

"It's my father's favorite place," Quentyn explained. "It would please me to show them to you one day. They are all of pink marble, with pools and fountains, overlooking the sea."

"They sound lovely." She drew him away from the pit. "You ought to return there. My court is no safe place for you, I fear. You have more enemies than you know. You made Daario look a fool, and he is not a man to forget such a slight."

"I have my knights. My sworn shields."

"Two knights. Daario has five hundred Stormcrows. And you would do well to beware my betrothed, too. He seems a mild and pleasant man, I know, but do not be deceived. Hizdahr's crown derives from mine, and he commands the allegiance of some of the most fearsome fighters in the world. If one of them should think to win his favor by disposing of a rival…"

"I am a prince of Dorne, Your Grace. I will not run from slaves and sellswords."

Dany gave her dragons one last lingering look. They began to scream as she led the boy and Alyce back to the door. Light played across the bricks, reflections of their fires. "Ser Barristan will have summoned a pair of sedan chairs to carry us back up, but the climb can still be wearisome." Behind them, the great iron doors closed with a resounding _clang_. "Tell me of this other Daenerys. I know less than I should of the history of my father's kingdom. I never had a maester growing up."

"It would be my pleasure, Your Grace," said Quentyn. He spoke of the history of Dorne and the Targaryen union as they ascended slowly back upward. Alyce appreciated the leisurely climb for the sake of her calf. They did not rise all the way to Daenerys' apartments—instead Dany led them off at the floor below her own, to take a small midday meal with the prince on a fine balcony. Alyce did not intrude; she stood far back from the two diners alongside Ser Barristan, a silent guard. She had nothing to say to the young prince at any rate, and preferred speaking to the queen when they were alone and she could be more casual.

When Quentyn was finished speaking of the first Daenerys and her lineage, Dany stood and excused herself from the prince's company. Ser Barristan, Alyce, and the rest of her guards accompanied her back to her apartments.

"Daario will likely be in my rooms," Dany told Alyce, taking her arm gently. She looked weary around the eyes. Alyce nodded.

"I will leave you at the door, then."

"Were you impressed by my children?"

"Yes…and no, Your Grace."

Dany glanced at her rather sharply. "Speak your mind."

"I could not say anything you do not already know. They are fearsome. Mighty, well-fed. But you keep them in chains in the dark. If they were to break out, could you calm them? Call them back?"

"The same doubts torment me," she replied quickly, voice hard. "But what is to be done? Outside of the pit, they are both vulnerable and a terror to the people. You were not here when a farmer brought me the charred bones of his daughter… Do you know where they would go if they were let free? To my Astapori. They would _eat_ the sick and wounded. And surrounded by my enemies, they would be targets. They are still small yet."

"All that is true, Your Grace. But is there a way for them to know your touch, your control, while they are safe here? Soon they will be so large, and if they do not know their mother…"

"Would they not connect me to their imprisonment, should I become their obvious jailer?"

Alyce considered. "Perhaps." She frowned. "A suppose a dog would make such a connection. I do not know enough of dragons, Your Grace."

"Nor do I." She sighed. There came the sound of running footsteps coming toward them around the hall. Immediately, Alyce and Ser Barristan both drew in the same motion as if they shared a mind, moving in front of the queen to meet a threat. Alyce had drawn both her shortsword and her dirk; Ser Barristan had drawn his longsword with a sharp scraping.

But the boots belonged to an Unsullied. Alyce and Ser Barristan backed down.

"Your Grace," he said in the unaffected and formal way of the Unsullied when he reached them, "Commander Grey Worm has had a report from our spies among the camps that a dwarf has been observed amongst the Yunkish."

Alyce frowned. _Amongst the Yunkish? Then it wouldn't be Tyrion. There are a number of dwarfs in this world._

While the queen glanced at Alyce, the solider continued, "He knows Your Grace has been waiting for one such to arrive. This dwarf is a slave of one of the Yunkish Wise Masters" —Alyce's hopes dropped further— "and a large, hairy Westerosi man serves with him."

Alyce let out her breath in a gust. " _Your Grace_ —"

"I know." Dany ordered the solider, "Bring Commander Grey Worm to me immediately. We shall be in the second floor northwestern council chamber." The Unsullied hurried off and Dany nodded curtly to Alyce. "Come. We will hear everything Grey Worm knows and then send you out with men to bring them in."

…


	28. XIV: Love's Ghost

…

XIV.

Love's Ghost

 **T** he healer entered the tent murmuring pleasantries, but one sniff of the foul air and a glance at Yezzan zo Qaggaz put an end to that. "The pale mare," the man told Sweets.

 _What a surprise_ , Tyrion thought dryly. _Who could have guessed?_ Yezzan was taken with fever, squirming fitfully. His shit had turned to brown slime streaked with blood…and it fell to his slaves to wipe his massive yellow bottom clean. Even with assistance, their master could not lift his own weight; it took all his failing strength to roll onto one side.

"My arts will not avail here," the healer announced. "The noble Yezzan's life is in the hands of the gods. Keep him cool if you can. Some say that helps. Bring him water." Those afflicted by the pale mare were always thirsty, drinking gallons between their shits. "Clean fresh water, as much as he will drink."

"Not river water," said Sweets.

"By no means." And with that, the healer fled.

 _Poor old Yezzan._ The lord of suet was not so bad as masters went. Sweets had been right about that. Serving at his nightly banquets, Tyrion had soon learned that Yezzan stood foremost among those Yunkish lords who favored honoring the peace with Meereen. Most of the others were only biding their time, waiting for the armies of Volantis to arrive. A few wanted to assault the city immediately, lest the Volentenes rob them of their glory and the best part of the plunder. Yezzan would have no part of that. Nor would he consent to returning Meereen's hostages by way of trebuchet, as the sellsword Bloodbeard had proposed.

 _But much and more can change in two days._ Two days ago Nurse had been hale and healthy. Two days ago Yezzan had not heard the pale male's ghostly hoofbeats. Two days ago the fleets of Volantis had been two days farther off. Now…

"Is Yezzan going to die?" Penny asked in that please-say-is-it-not-so voice of hers.

"We are all going to die."

"Of the flux, I mean."

Sweets gave them a desperate look. "Yezzan _must not die_." The hermaphrodite stroked the brow of their gargantuan master, pushing back his sweat-damp hair. The Yunkishman moaned. His bedding was stained and stinking, but they had no way to move him.

"Some masters free their slaves when they die," said Penny.

Sweets tittered. It was a ghastly sound. "Only favorites. They free them from the woes of the world, to accompany their beloved master to the grave and serve him in the afterlife."

 _Sweets would know. His will be the first throat slit._

The goat boy spoke up. "The silver queen—"

"—is shut up in her city," insisted Sweets. "Forget her!"

"If we were free," said Penny, "we could sail to Qarth. The streets are paved with jade there, my brother always said. The city walls are one of the wonders of the world. When we perform in Qarth, gold and silver will rain down on us, you'll see."

"Some of those ships on the bay are Qartheen," Tyrion reminded her. "Lomas Longstrider saw the walls of Qarth. His books suffice for me. I have gone as far east as I intend to go."

Sweets dabbed at Yezzan's fevered face with a damp cloth. "Yezzan must live. Or we will die with him. The pale mare does not carry off every rider. The master will recover."

There was no chance the master would recover, Tyrion could see sat for a moment to rub his cramping thighs.

"I could do that for you," offered Penny.

"I know where the knots are." As fond as he was of the girl, it still made him uncomfortable when she touched him.

He rather envied Penny and all her dreams. She reminded him of Sansa Stark, the child bride who had despised him. Despite the horrors Penny had suffered, she remained somehow trusting. Or lackwitted. _She should know better. She is older than Sansa. And she's a dwarf. She acts as if she has forgotten that, as if she is not a slave in a grotesquerie._

At night Tyrion would oft hear her praying. _If there are gods to listen, they are monstrous gods who torment us for their sport. Who else would make a world like this? Who else would shape us as they have?_ Sometimes he wanted to slap her or scream at her. _No one is going to save us. The worst is yet to come._ Yet somehow he could never say the words. Instead of giving her a good hard crack across that ugly face of hers to knock the blinders from her eyes, he found himself offering reassurances.

He and Penny had been tending to Yezzan all evening. Tyrion looked toward the tent opening. For now, the others could take over attending his slow dying.

"Come, Penny." He opened the tent flap and led her out into the heat of a Meereenese night. Without Nurse, and with Yezzan taken ill, no one was left to control them. Outside, the organization of the Yunkish camps was deteriorating slowly. The pale mare carried off more every day, the carts piled high with bodies in the mornings.

"Water will help the master," Penny was saying as they walked back toward their little tent. "That's what the healer said, it must be so. Sweet fresh water."

"Sweet fresh water didn't help Nurse." Yezzan's men had tossed him onto the corpse wagon last night at dusk, assuming him another victim of the pale mare. When men are dying every hour, no one looks too hard at one more dead man, especially one as well despised as Nurse. Tyrion had been tasked with bringing him drinks that evening. _Watered wine and lemonsweet and some nice hot dogtail soup, with slivers of mushroom in the broth. Drink it down, Nursey._ The last word Nurse ever said was "No." The last words he ever heard were, "A Lannister always pays his debts."

Tyrion had kept the truth of it from Penny, but she needed to understand how things stood with their master. "Yezzan will be dead by sunrise."

She clutched his arm. "What will happen to us?"

"He has heirs. Nephews." Four such had come with Yezzan from Yunkai to command his slave soldiers. One was dead, slain by Targaryen sellswords during a sortie. The other three would divide the yellow enormity's slaves amongst them, like as not. Whether any of the nephews shared Yezzan's fondness for cripples, freaks, and grotesques was far less certain. "One of them may inherit us. Or we could end up back on the auction block."

"No." Her eyes got big. "Not that. Please."

"It is not a prospect I relish, either."

Every step they took, the bells on their collars tinkled brightly. _Such a happy sound, it makes me want to scoop out someone's eyeballs with a spoon._ By now, Griff and Duck and Haldon Halfmaester would be in Westeros with their young prince. _Alyce and I should be with them…but no, I had to have a whore. Kinslaying was not enough, I needed a cunt and wine to seal both our ruins…and here I am on the wrong side of the world, wearing a slave collar with little golden bells to announce my coming. If I dance just right, maybe I can ring "The Rains of Castamere."_

The most insidious things about bondage was how easy it was to grow accustomed to. The life of most slaves was not at all different from the life of a serving man at Casterly Rock, it seemed to him. True, some slave-owners and their overseers were brutally cruel, but the same was true of some Westerosi lords and their stewards and bailiffs. Most of the Yunkai'i treated their chattels decently enough, so long as they did their jobs and caused no trouble.

They entered their own small tent. Jorah Mormont was sitting hunched on his section of the carpet, the spot beneath him stained with dried blood.

Tyrion's hatred of the man had been replaced by bitter pity since their enslavement. The big knight had not adapted well to bondage. When called upon to play the bear and carry off the maiden fair, he had been sullen and uncooperative, shuffling lifelessly through his paces when he deigned to take part in their mummery at all. Though he had not attempted to escape, nor offered violence to his captors, he would ignore their commands oft as not or reply with muttered curses. None of this had amused Nurse, who made his displeasure clear by having him beaten every evening as the sun sank into Slaver's Bay. The knight absorbed the beatings silently; the only sounds were the muttered curses of the slaves who beat him and the dull _thuds_ of their clubs pounding against Mormont's bruised and battered flesh.

 _The man is a shell_ , Tyrion thought, the first time he saw him beaten. Mormont had not been set upon since Tyrion had murdered Nurse, but nonetheless he was bent and squinting, with both eyes blackened and his back crusty with dried blood. His face was so bruised and swollen that he hardly looked human. He was naked except for loose pants belted with rope. _Some men would sooner die free than live a slave, I suppose._

Tyrion himself might have been stricken with the same affliction but for the sacrifice of the woman this man had caused to die.

 _You died trying to keep me safe. I should attempt to make it worth something._

"Mormont. Get up." The camp was in disarray, Yezzan was dying, and Tyrion knew he would be given no better time than to talk them into Brown Ben Plumm's Second Sons. The man knew who he was, of that Tyrion was certain, as he had attempted to buy and win him twice now. He was an old Plumm of Westeros, descended from Viserys Plumm, if Tyrion's memory was correct. Once face-to-face, Tyrion would be able to convince the man his head was of more use to him upon his shoulders. He only had to get Mormont and Penny there with him. They needed an excuse to be crossing the camp.

"Mormont, I need you to take Penny and find us some pails. We need to fetch Yezzan some well water." When the bear of a man did not move, Tyrion rounded on him. "NOW!"

Blinking at his sudden and unusual ferocity, Mormont stirred and rose, hunching. Tyrion turned to Penny and told her, "My legs need to rest, but Ser Jorah will protect you on your way to get the pails."

She nodded quickly and, blinking, left the tent with Mormont as her escort. Tyrion dropped down onto the carpet, making plans and massaging his calves and thighs. He would need to talk his way through the Second Son's posted guards.

He paced the tent, deciding what his silver tongue would spin to both them and Brown Ben himself. _The minute Penny and Mormont return we will head toward the Second Sons with our pails for the fetching of water our excuse for crossing the camps…_

The sound of boots outside his tent caught his attention. It was not Mormont and Penny returning, that he could hear plainly. The slaves that lived in these tents were all busy at the moment tending to Yezzan, the heirs tented further off, and Yezzan's guards were elsewhere. Who would be here?

The tent flap was shoved open.

A young man stepped in—a young man with a ghost's face—and he commented in the ghost's dry voice, "You're a hard dwarf to find, you bastard."

Tyrion sucked in air. " _Alyce_."

She closed the space between them with two strides, and then she was on her knees beside him, and she was kissing him, and her mouth tasted of pears and salt, and he could not breathe for joy. His sudden tears added to the saltiness of her tongue. He gasped and embraced her and repeated her name again and again, breathless and disbelieving.

She had gathered him up into her arms tightly, one hand on the side of his face, pulling his mouth to her with welcome urgency. Her other arm and her legs were around him too—she was all around him. He drowned in her.

"He said you were dead—" he choked.

"A whore ran for a healer." Her words were muffled, her mouth buried in his face, his neck, his hair. She inhaled the scent of him. "You bloody bastard," she whispered. "You bloody bastard… I swear… Are you alright?" She suddenly wrenched him a bit apart from her so she could investigate his body with eagle eyes. "Are you missing any bits? Did they tattoo you?" Her eyes rested on his stupid collar. "I'll get this thing off of you."

Tyrion did not want to think, he just wanted to be in her arms again, kissing her again. "The master and his heirs…"

"I'll take care of it."

"You must—"

"I have money—and men waiting. You're safe." She touched his face again and then was pulling him into her again. He kissed her fiercely, like a man gone half mad.

When they broke apart again a minute later, he found that they were lying on their sides intertwined on the carpet. She held him tightly, her arms and fingers tightening reflexively every half minute as if she would never allow him to leave her arms. Tyrion felt dizzy with a happiness the like of which he had thought would never seize him again.

He fingered some of her shortened hair.

"Your hair."

"I had to fake being a man in order to reach Meereen." She touched a scar in his neck. "Your neck."

"A shard of wood from a splintering mast."

Her eyes tightened. "Seven hells."

Something about her expression caused his stomach to swoop with tenderness. He traced her lips with his fingers. He wanted to memorize her. Disappear into her. But he had so many questions. Prince Aegon…that night Mormont had taken him…and he felt terrifyingly inadequate in her arms. Her arms were hard and shapely, her legs long… He was painfully aware of his dwarf body. Shame and inadequacy prickled hot in his stomach. How could she want…?

She pressed her warm forehead to his and he closed his eyes, his thoughts melting, his insides liquefying. He remembered that night under the fur on the _Shy Maid_ …

Her forehead nuzzled his. "Talk to me," she whispered. "I have missed your voice the most."

Tyrion's stomach clenched. Her words touched him deep enough to give him panic. Sudden tears welled, and he was ashamed of them and sat up to scrub at his face fiercely. "Is someone paying you for this?" he asked her quietly. "I beg you would just tell me. I beg you. Tell me what this is."

"You aren't worthy," she returned quickly, "is that it? You will never trust me? I see the wisdom of that, so keep distrust in your belly if you must, but I have missed you _terribly_ you ugly bastard, and you shall not shoulder me away for the nonce. I have no pride at the moment. A miracle, if ever there was such a thing." She hauled him back into her arms on her lap and kissed him with a bite and a tenderness that shook Tyrion's bones. His tears dried on her face.

Her hands were soft and tender when they ran over his jaw or through his hair, but those hands and arms were hard and blessedly strong when they wrapped around beneath him. Often she nuzzled like an animal into his neck and face and made soft noises. Tyrion felt faint with the life-giving joy of it.

Only a few short minutes later, she pulled him onto his feet with her quite suddenly, scrubbing at her face and brushing off her clothes. "Now. We must…" She trailed off and pointed to the side of the tent stained with blood. "Whose blood?" she asked.

"Mormont's. He sleeps there. They beat him."

Alyce stilled and looked at him in an odd blank way. She looked again at the bloodstains. "You…you sleep with him?"

"They sleep all of us together."

"Yes, but…you thought he had killed me."

 _And you haven't taken vengeance_.

It hung in the air between them. How little it appeared she had meant to him.

Alyce quickly masked over the flash of pain that had come to her eyes, but Tyrion had seen it.

"Alyce, he—"

"It doesn't matter." A lie. "Wait here. I need to go—" Her words cut off as they both looked toward the slit in the tent. Heavy and light footfalls reached Tyrion's ears—Penny and Mormont returning. Alyce knelt, smooth and swift as rushing water, to pick up again her swordsword in its scabbard, her right hand hovering at the hilt. When Mormont shouldered into the tent, she drew, but her arm stilled in shock at his appearance. He stared at her with hollow eyes that did not recognize her. He did not seem to care whether or not she ran him through.

Penny had made a squeak and Alyce stared down blankly at her. She looked from the girl back to Tyrion…

…and then shoved past them out of the tent.

Tyrion sat back down with an exhale.

 _She's angry with me. About Mormont…about what Penny and I look like._ He rubbed his face with his hand and attempted to process. Penny was talking to him, but he ignored her for the moment. _Alyce. Alive. Here, with gold and men. Angry with me. Kissing me…_

"We're staying here until she returns," Tyrion announced to them, ignorant of whatever Penny had been in the middle of saying. "She's a friend and she's going to get us out, I think."

"She?" Penny repeated. "But…it was a man…"

"She," Tyrion sighed, too distracted to try to explain. He could still taste pears and salt. He licked his lips slowly, reeling. He ached for her. Joy, guilt, and confusion swirled inside him madly. Her resurgence into his life stabbed his heart, knifelike, dead in the center. But he could _feel_ his heart. He could feel life in his chest. Passion. He had been so long without it…

 _Alyce_.

A studdered laugh burst from him, and Penny stared at him. He lay onto his back and stared at the yellow tent ceiling. Alyce. Alive. Here. Fierce, beautiful, inexplicable. He felt light. On fire. He touched his mouth and his neck where she had kissed him. He closed his eyes and pictured her stepping into the tent, the flap closing behind her, looking a man. ' _You're a hard dwarf to find, you bastard.'_ Her eyes, her blue Baratheon eyes. Her arms around him. The fierceness of her mouth on his. The hunger and desperate relief in her kiss.

 _She has come back from the dead, and me with her._

Exquisite joy, so sharp and bright, made his stomach quaver. Even if she had not touched him, if he had only been able to see she was alright, it would have been enough. That she was alright was enough. And now…the passion of their reunion…in one swooping blow it had wrenched up such _life_ inside of him.

She had suddenly and completely taken over his entire mind. Concern for her saturated him, and while they waited in the tent, the brief moments of their reunion obsessed his thoughts. He felt wrong, sitting here without her while she was elsewhere. Devotion, lust, tenderness—the power of them made him feel dizzy.

He attempted to master himself or he was like to weep again.

The only thing to sober him was the acid of his doubt. _I had been so sure she was just another Shae…_ And that very night she had almost died for him. _I am a fool. I am a fool. I have always been such a fool. Why would she love me? But then why would she die for me? But then why would she love me?_

More than half an hour later, their waiting was rewarded. One of Yezzan's heirs kicked open their tent and ordered them out into the hot night. The moans of the dying wafted to them faintly on the breeze; the air stank of cooked meat, smoke, and human shit.

Alyce was standing with a scowl, still dressed as a man, but in far finer garb than she had been in before. He marveled at her transformation—even the way she moved had changed—and her mask of masculinity did not waver. Grouped behind her was a party of men all dressed differently but all with strangely the same stoic, hard expressions. They carried swords at their hips—every one of them on their right. _Well-trained soldiers in clothes to disguise them. Where did Alyce get such men?_

The ironworker that had fitted Tyrion, Penny, and Jorah Mormont with their collars now stepped forward and began removing them.

Alyce grunted something in Ghiscari—her pronunciation far better than it had been on the _Shy Maid_ —and gestured to Mormont. Her voice was much deeper than was natural. One of her men stepped forward with heavy chains and chained Mormont up securely while Tyrion and Penny had their collars taken off. Alyce grunted again in command and lighter chains were placed on Tyrion and Penny. Alyce nodded brusquely to the heir and his guards and three of her men led Mormont, Tyrion, and Penny away, yanking at them firmly.

They moved away from Meereen at first, removed Tyrion and Penny's chains, and then doubled back around to the gate through no-man's land. Mormont's irons were not removed. Alyce's guards watched for any trespassers while the great gate opened just wide enough to let them all through. Tyrion had to crane his neck all the way back to look up at the gate and the walls. The old bricks of Meereen were red and dun like blood lost to a road's dust.

The great gate was closed again behind, but Tyrion barely had time to pay attention to it; he needed to move as fast as his stunted legs could order to keep up with Alyce and the soldiers surrounding them.

They moved through the city straight for the Great Pyramid. Tyrion looked up at Alyce often, but she led at the front of the formation, and he could only see her back. When she looked right or left, he saw her face was set into a hard mask of wary alert. She did not glance back at him.

"I can't go so fast," Penny finally admitted in a shrill voice. The formation slowed. Tyrion was limping and his calves were knots of vicious pain by the time they entered the pyramid. They entered as if expected, sweeping through unmolested or questioned.

Tyrion grew amazed.

 _From where has Alyce amassed this power? Is Prince Aegon here, with Lord Connington? Has she made some sort of deal with the dragon queen?_ He could not help but stare at her. His adoration burned hot in a tight ball in his chest, and yet they seemed worlds away from the embraces they had shared in Yezzan's tent. She towered above him, untouchable, powerful, a stranger, her face a detached mask.

It was cool and dim inside the pyramid, and the noise of the outside city was entirely muffled. Tyrion remembered reading somewhere that the Great Pyramid of Meereen's outer walls were thirty feet thick, and its inner walls three times thicker than the curtain walls of any castle.

They reached some sort of lower room. Alyce turned to a solider to instruct them. "Have them bathed, fed, and their clothes burned. Burn your own clothes in shifts and mine as well when I send them down. They're to scrub with vinegar and then bathe again. I will send someone to see to the large one's injuries. I will be back down shortly."

The solider nodded his head curtly and answered in a thick accent, "Yes, _imoa kijakthi_."

Alyce left them without a glance. The soldiers opened the washroom's doors and gave instructions in Meereenese to the servants within. About half of them left, while the rest remained to guard the door. Mormont's irons were still not removed.

The washroom was cavernous and well-equipped, fashioned of greyish stone and white-and-grey marble, and lit by large candles in glass sconces. It housed eight smaller bath basins already full and waiting, and two very large ones, only one of which was full. The baths were surrounded by jars of salts and oils.

The servants, all female, efficiently stripped them of their clothes, piling them in a basket to be burned. Penny yelped and was miserable as she was stripped; Tyrion and Jorah turned their backs on her and gave her what privacy they could.

The servants scrubbed them roughly with vinegar first, then allowed them to bathe in peace, then when they climbed out, scrubbed them with vinegar again and forced them a final time back into the baths. Tyrion's fingers wrinkled.

"What's happening? Who is your friend?" Penny asked him, allowing a safe glance at him when her stunted naked body was fully submerged in the water of a separate bath.

Tyrion was scrubbing his hair roughly and feeling for any mites, while keeping to the rim of the bath—the basin was rather deep. "We're being made fit to see the queen, I believe." He watched the servants distastefully scrub Mormont because his hands were still chained. The knight made little roars when they scrubbed his face, his groin, and when the soap got in any of his still-open wounds, but for the most part they ignored him. Mormont looked pale under his swelling and bruises. "My friend is a sort of solider, from King's Landing."

"Why does she look like a man?"

"Life is easier for men in this world."

"Oh… Are we still slaves?"

"There is no slavery in Meereen."

"Then why is Ser Jorah still chained?"

"Because he is a captive."

"A _captive_?"

"The queen will likely not be pleased to see him."

"Why?"

"You can ask him that yourself."

Penny glanced at Mormont's murderous glower and did nothing of the kind.

When they had stepped out and dried themselves, giving each other their backs, the servants pressed clothes on them and helped them on with them when they felt they were going too slowly. Mormont, unable to dry himself, had to be helped out of the bath and then scrubbed with towels by the servants. He looked such an absurd sight Tyrion almost laughed. Almost.

"At least we have those collars off, Penny," Tyrion told her when he saw her anxious expression. "And not surrounded by the pale mare anymore. We're not slaves anymore. The queen has freed us."

Penny smiled tentatively. "Yes…that's true. Perhaps…if we ask her to send us to Qarth…"

They were dressed and they waited with their backs politely turned while a healer administered poultices to Mormont while he stood, naked. A single platter of food came in for the three to share, and Tyrion and Penny set to it, saving Mormont a third of it, though Tyrion did not know how he would be able to eat with his hands chained.

Finally they dressed him over his fresh gauze and stepped away from him, busying themselves with cleaning up. Tentatively, Penny waddled over with the platter and reached out with a large bite of braised pigeon to Mormont. After a sullen moment, the big knight stooped to eat off her fingers. She was able to feed him a few bites more before the servants made noises ushering them out of the washroom. The doors were opened and they were let out.

Tyrion stared at Alyce.


	29. XV: The Time for Pride

…

XV.

The Time for Pride

 **T** yrion stared at Alyce.

She had been standing waiting for them with one foot pressed against the wall behind her, lounging, arms crossed. She had bathed and removed the clothing that had made her look masculine; she was wearing sandals, loose-fitting airy pants that ended slightly below her knees, and form-fitting blue silk that curved over her bosom and under her arms but left her shoulders bare. Thin silk strands from the neckline crossed over her neck and fastened at the nape. At her waist she wore a full arrayment of weaponry; shortsword, dirk, and as many knives as would fit in the belt's sheaths. She looked both fearsome and lovely, in the same amounts.

He could see the pale scar on her shoulder where Mormont's blade had torn her open. And then he inhaled sharply as his eyes caught a new, terrible scar marring her. "Your _leg_ ," he breathed in a gasp.

But Alyce was watching Jorah Mormont. The knight was staring at her as Tyrion was—he was only now recognizing her.

"You," he grunted.

"Me," she replied, her voice cool as water and thrice as cold. Her eyes narrowed dangerously as she pushed gently off the wall, and, smooth as an eel, a blade was in her hand and she was holding it pressed to his hairy throat. "If the queen's decision does not go well for you, Mormont, don't despair. I will pamper you until you're hale and healthy. Then we will have another bout, although I think this time I will not be the one to bleed." Mormont only glowered at her through his swollen eyelids. "Although…" she murmured, lowering her voice, "if you threaten Tyrion within my hearing, you great gargoyle, such things will not wait. I will open your hairy chest shoulder to cock."

She lowered the blade and stepped away from the large, chained knight. The soldiers, now in Unsullied uniforms and freshly bathed, followed her, and Tyrion, Penny, and Mormont with them.

"My leg is rather a good story, in truth," she said lightly, addressing Tyrion's comment as they walked. "An Unsullied speared me when I first was brought before the queen. Hopefully you and the girl will fare a bit better."

Penny looked frightened. Tyrion's thoughts were racing, but it was difficult to think of anything but Alyce. "Do you serve her?" he asked.

"I do; I have since she accepted me into her service when I reached Meereen. Now that is enough questions until after you are presented." She glanced behind her briefly at Penny. "What is your name, girl?"

Tyrion winced as she addressed the girl she thought was his lover, and he wished there was a way to communicate the truth of things.

"Penny—it's Penny," Penny stammered quickly.

"You should have nothing to fear—you are not the queen's enemy. Remember that you are expected to bow before her and refer to her as 'Your Grace.'" She paused. "Mormont." She did not glance behind her at the knight. "I give you this advice. Forget yourself and your wants and your pride. Comport yourself with humility. Even after everything, serving Her Grace is not your right. You deserve nothing."

Mormont was silent.

"How long have you been here?" Tyrion asked, trying to understand how the young bastard woman sent to bodyguard the passengers of the _Shy Maid_ could have ended up striding through Queen Daenerys Targaryen's Great Pyramid of Meereen with enough authority to command the queen's Unsullied. _What has happened to her since Selhorys? Who the seven bloody hells_ is _she?_

"There will be no more questions now, as I said."

They were nearing a great stairway of veined marble, though Tyrion spotted doors to servant's steps hidden in the thick brick walls, steep and narrow.

"Carry the dwarfs," Alyce told the Unsullied behind her as she began to climb the steps. A solider plucked Tyrion off his feet and carried him like a babe in arms as they followed Alyce up the great stairway. A soldier carried Penny similarly on his left. Mormont was left to his own clanking devices. It was rather inglorious, but Tyrion was grateful for it all the same. His legs could not have made it up all these steps.

They climbed up at least ten floors, and even Alyce began to slow and breathe hard. The Unsullied showed no sign of weariness.

At length, they exited the stairway and went left. At the end of a grand hall with great beams of black oak supporting the high ceilings, the impossibly large doors to Queen Daenerys Targaryen's audience chamber stood open. The soldiers placed the dwarfs back on their feet, and all of them followed Alyce's long strides into the chamber.

The dragon queen's throne room was a chilly, echoing, and high-ceilinged chamber of purple marble and tile. Tall candles burned among the mighty marble pillars. More Unsullied stood with their backs against the pillars, and Tyrion felt their cool eyes on him. The Unsullied escorting them fell away to join the others, so it was only Tyrion and Penny following Alyce down the imposing hall, with Mormont trailing behind, his chains clattering.

At the other end of the walk, above another lesser flight of marble steps, the queen sat waiting for them. Tyrion could not make out her features yet, but she was dressed in white with an odd motley assortment of guards behind her.

The audience chamber was designed to make a man feel small, and being what he was, Tyrion felt doubly so.

Their footfalls echoed. Alyce's stride was unconcerned, though she did slow herself slightly so Tyrion and Penny could keep up with her.

Tyrion inspected the queen as they approached the base of the stairs.

Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of King Aerys II, lived up to every and all descriptions of her beauty. She wore a white dress that fanned over her shoulders at the sides imposingly but clung to her slim woman's form and plunged in a sharp V between her breasts. Her silver-gold hair cascaded down behind her, braids making a natural crown about her brow. She wore little jewelry that Tyrion could see, and was seated on a simple ebony bench instead of a throne.

Tyrion knew her to be young, only sixteen or so, but there was something older about her eyes that no story told about her had been able to capture. Her purple eyes were wise for her age, and held a true queen's coolness in them. Tyrion saw at once this was not a young woman to be easily toyed with or beguiled. _Yet she is the breaker of chains, caring for common people perhaps more than is wise. So there must be softness in her._

Ser Barristan Selmy stood to the queen's right, armored and armed, gazing down at Tyrion and Ser Jorah with solemn and surly disapproval.

When they reached a stop, Tyrion went to one knee with bent head at almost the same moment as Alyce did. His knees screamed in protest, but he kept his expression carefully blank. Penny hastily followed suit, and Mormont too knelt, his chains clanking.

A young female voice called out from behind the queen, " _Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles and Mother of Dragons_."

"Rise," Queen Daenerys said. Her voice was mild and cool.

"Your Grace," Alyce began formally, rising, "I present to you first Penny, a former slave and entertainer of the Yunkish Wise Master Yezzan zo Qaggaz. She speaks the Common Tongue."

Penny wrung her stunted hands anxiously.

The queen asked her gently, "How long did you serve this Yezzan, Penny?"

"Only a week or so, Y-Your Grace," Penny answered breathlessly. "Before we were sold, we…Lord Tyrion and I…we were sailing for Meereen with Ser Jorah when we were taken by the slave ship."

"And why were you all sailing here to Meereen?"

"To—to see you, Your Grace." Penny looked unsure, glancing at Tyrion worriedly, as if afraid she was doing something wrong. "I-I think. Well, I was trying to k-kill Lord Tyrion at first, because of my brother, you see, but we all ended up… I thought we were going to help y-you." She gave Tyrion a last look for help, but he was gazing steadily at the queen. Penny's gaze found the floor. Her eyes were growing moist.

"I see. Penny, do you have family you should like to return to?"

Penny's large brown eyes filled with sudden tears. "N-no, Your Grace."

"Then you shall remain as my guest for now. One of my guards will show you to a room. You may come and go as you wish in the pyramid. If you should need anything, ask a servant."

Alyce correctly interpreted the girl's panic as a guard stepped forward to take her away, and she assured her, "If you should like to see someone tomorrow, you need only ask to be taken to them." Penny looked comforted by this. The guard led her out.

"Now may I present to you Lord Tyrion of House Lannister," Alyce introduced formally, "second son of the late Lord Tywin Lannister, former Hand of the King to the late King Joffrey Baratheon, former Master of Coin to the same, rightful head of House Lannister, rightful Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and rightful Lord of Winterfell through his lady wife, Sansa Stark."

One of the queen's eyebrows had risen. Tyrion was irritated by all the titles. _A farce, all of them, and many and more of them likely to anger Her Grace._ He had no choice but to assume that Alyce knew what she was doing.

Queen Daenerys gazed at him. He saw a hint of the usual disgust that was always there when beautiful women beheld him, but also curiosity, and something flat in her expression, as if she was not surprised at all by him somehow.

"Many titles," she said, "and none of them welcome. Alyce has spoken for you and says that Magister Illyrio was sending you to me even before Ser Jorah captured you. Tell me why he would think I might accept you into my service instead of killing you on sight for what your family has done to mine."

"If it is revenge on the Lannisters you want," Tyrion replied, "no one could help you more than I already have. I slew my mother, Jonna Lannister, on the day I was born. I poisoned my nephew King Jofferey Lannister at his wedding feast. I killed my father, Tyrion Lannister, with a bolt through the bowels. I am the greatest Lannister killer of our time."

"So I should welcome you into my service because you murdered members of your own family?" Her tone was cold and dry as bone.

"Your Grace, we have only just met. It is too soon to know whether you deserve my service."

Her other eyebrow rose. "If you'd rather return to Yezzan's sons, just say the word." She paused pointedly. "I know why you are here and who sent you. You will not have another opportunity to recommend yourself to me."

Tyrion straightened to his full height. "I see what you have done so far with power. But you cannot hope to save and to rule the Seven Kingdoms when you have no one at your side who understands that land, or the strengths and weakness of the houses that will either join or oppose you—"

"I will have a very large army and very large dragons."

"Killing and politics aren't _always_ the same thing. When I served as Hand of the King, I did quite well with the matter considering the king in question preferred torturing animals to leading his people. I could do an even better job advising a ruler worth the name. If that is indeed what you are."

He shifted his weight slightly and continued, "I have knowledge that would be invaluable to you. I can predict my sister the Queen Regent's every move. I can tell your captains the best way to defeat my brother Ser Jaime in battle. I know all the lords—their habits, their loyalties. I can deliver you allies. And most importantly to you, perhaps, I know much and more of dragons. Dragonlore is not common knowledge, and you would be hard-pressed to find a better scholar of it."

The queen had been gazing at him unblinkingly, but now, briefly, she moved her eyes to Alyce. Then she was watching Tyrion again.

"All this would indeed be welcome if your loyalties do not lie elsewhere. Because Magister Illyrio and Alyce have spoken for your loyalty, I withhold judgement. For now." Regally, she moved her eyes to Alyce. "Take him to the rooms I have given you."

With a glance at Tyrion, Alyce began walking out of the echoing throne room to the right. Tyrion followed, with one look back at the chained and bandaged bear of a knight standing alone and before the queen, his life and happiness at the ground at her feet. It seemed they would not be witness to his fate.

Alyce led him through a servant's door—more like a tunnel through the thick wall—and into an empty carpeted corridor where sounds from the audience chamber could no longer be heard.

"Alyce." Tyrion had stopped walking.

Alyce made a quiet noise of irritation and turned to him. Her expression was more open than before, but she still held a reserve in her face that she had not had when she had stepped into his tent. Absurdly, it made him wish to be back in the Yunkish slave camp again. At least there he had been able to touch her, to kiss her…

He said nothing for a moment, and during that time of just looking at one another in the empty hall, her face softened slightly. She made to turn. "Come on."

"Alyce."

She turned again. "Tyrion—"

"What happened after Selhorys?" he asked, allowing some of his bewilderment into his tone. "How—how are you here?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. "It's too long a story to tell it in the middle of a hall. Your room is down here."

"Alyce, I wanted to kill him."

Her face masked over like a sudden storm, freezing away all emotion.

"I wanted to kill him," he began again, "But I was his prisoner, and then when I wasn't, there was no sure way… I thought about it all night in the beginning, every night… But you were dead, the _Shy Maid_ was gone, and where could I go alone? And then I began to pity him. He is in love with the queen. By then, the murder had gone out of me. I'm sorry. I don't have your strength."

"Follow me or wander this pyramid on your own. I will not wait for you again." Her voice was clipped. She began walking away and Tyrion jogged after her.

They went up one step to a slightly raised level, and down that carpeted hall Alyce stopped at a door and produced two keys. One she handed to Tyrion and one she unlocked the door with and slipped back inside her belt. The room was dark, but she lit a candle and others; Tyrion assisted her. There were a couple handsome and sweet-scented oil lamps to light the room as well.

The apartment was a handsomely appointed bedchamber—one large room that included a small sitting area with cushioned divans and bookshelves, a large bed against the left wall, and a privy door off to the right. It even looked to have a small balcony.

Alyce walked to the sitting area, took off her swordbelt and placed it gently onto the floor, then took off her sandals as well. Barefoot, she sat down on a divan. Tyrion followed her to the sitting area, though he left his shoes on. Standing beside her, he was only as tall as her when she was sitting. Wincing internally, he crossed his arms beside her.

"Shall I go back and kill him for you?" he asked her softly. It was half a jape, but his tone was sincere. "Would that dissolve your anger? And Alyce, concerning Penny—we aren't lovers. Nowhere close."

Alyce's expression was dry. "Are you trying to win me? After you made it clear you don't trust my affection?"

Tyrion grimaced. "I am not sure…what I am trying to do."

"What do you _want_ , Lord Tyrion?"

 _You. You, wrapped around me. You, at my side. You, to whisper to in the nights._

"There to be no secrets between us," he finally said.

She nodded. "Aye. I should like the same thing. So I shall answer your question. Why I am doing this."

Tyrion almost took a step back from her. Painful heat seared across the surface of his chest. Even after everything, even after he had watched her fall, bleeding, for him, he expected the worst. She saw so. She was watching his eyes. He tried not to let too much of what he was feeling show, but his eyes betrayed him. In hers he saw disappointment.

"I swore a vow in King's Landing," she said, "to Lord Varys to act as someone's shield, but it was not to Aegon or any of the _Shy Maid's_ crew." Her voice was soft. "I was sworn to protect _you_. To be your shield, whatever happened. You protect your life with mine. Lord Varys believes you have a great part left to play in this game of thrones. I did not tell you because I knew you would not believe me."

"I do not know if I believe you _now_."

"It doesn't matter. I'm merely explaining why you shall not be able to get rid of me. My oath forces me to be your ever-present shield, whether you or I wish it or not."

"A bodyguard with teats—my favorite kind. I am surprised it is not already the fashion."

Alyce ignored his japes. "I will be sleeping here, unless that's unacceptable to you. If so, I will be in the next room."

"By all means. But while we're going, why not cut out the middle and be my bedmate? A bedwarmer and bodyguard—two in one." He wanted to cut out his tongue, but he could not stop. Her detached manner provoked his own mechanisms of separation.

Alyce seemed unbothered by his quips. She stood.

"Wait," he said, his tone night and day different. "Please. Tell me about after Selhorys."

Alyce crossed her arms. He had to crane his neck to look up at her. Her face was an excellent mask; he could see nothing in her eyes. "A healer was brought, but I did not wake until the next day. I could find no record of you on the docks or anywhere to tell me where you might be headed. I didn't know the knight that had taken you, and the only one I thought might know was Connington, so I caught up with them.

"He told me of Ser Jorah—everything he knew. The whore Jorah had near him that night had looked and dressed like Daenerys, and he was refusing to go back to Westeros and claim the lands his betrayal of her afforded him, so I thought perhaps he had fallen in love with her. It was a leap, I admit, but if he had taken you to sea back to King's Landing, there was likely no way for me to catch up, so this seemed the more useful of my options.

"I dressed as a man and joined the Company of the Cat. I abandoned the company at Meereen and swam the Skahazadhan to scale the walls. I fought my way down, but while I staked out the Great Pyramid, Unsullied took me captive. The queen heard me out and made me one of her guards."

"So easily?"

"…No." She sat beside him again with a hint of a rueful smile. "They kept me in a prison for a time, and then when they brought me to her, it seemed I might be killed. I don't remember how exactly it came up—I was faint from hunger at the time—but at some point Daen—er, Her Grace expressed doubt that I could pose any harm to her. I had analyzed the placement of the guards already and—well, I must have been out of my mind, but I attacked her. I thought perhaps if I showed her I could kill her and didn't, she might trust me. It was mad.

"But it worked, even though during it I was speared through the leg. I ended up with a shard of glass at Her Grace's throat, despite her Unsullied guards, mostly through pure speed. Then I kissed her, threw the glass aside, sat down in a chair, and fainted from hunger and blood loss. That kiss is why the Unsullied call me _imoa kijakthi_ —Kissing Snake. Since then, they've given me my weapons back and I've become one of her personal guards."

Tyrion was staring at her. "You're _mad_."

"Aye."

He began to reach out to touch her, but then drew his hand back.

"I've been waiting here for you," she said quietly, "hoping you and Mormont would show up at the gates by some miracle."

"Well, your insane luck held," he replied. "Here we are. Judging Mormont's intentions as you did—that was clever of you." She looked so beautiful in her silk, her tanned skin glowing in the candlelight. "I'm so glad you're alive," he murmured, voice low with the difficulty of sincerity. "Even if—even if nothing else is true. I am glad of that."

Alyce looked as if she was going to say something, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead she asked, businesslike, "Do you need anything? There is a washroom down the hall, and a privy through that door. Clothes will be altered for you. Both you and the girl will be provided for."

"Thank you." He wanted to say a thousand things, but that was all that came out of his mouth. "Alyce," he finally murmured.

Her expression was still cool. "Yes?"

"Did I dream our kiss?" he whispered, vulnerability trembling inside him. "Or is that how you greet every lost charge returned to you?"

She looked away. "Perhaps that is how I greet them all. It is in the past, whatever it was."

Tyrion drew further inside himself at her words. Yet her joyful embrace had not been one of duty. She had risked the Sorrows and almost died for him. What had he done for _her_?

 _Now is not the time for pride_.

"Alyce, I died when Mormont told me you were dead," he confessed in a tight, low voice. "Before you came into that tent, I was a walking ghost. A jape. Missing you and the guilt of being the reason you were gone from the world were worse than death, and I accepted them as my punishment.

"Since I learned you were alive, I have turned into a blithering fool, able to think of nothing but you and want nothing but you. If you would allow me, I would hold you tonight, and weep in gratitude." He was beginning to weep _now_ , he realized. _What an utter fool I am. What must she think?_ "If I am mistaken…if… Tell me now, and I will not be angry—I'll say nothing again of such things. I am weak, and I did not have the drive to kill a man I hated, but that does not mean I am not terribly in love with you. Alyce…"

Her face was hidden by a hand at her forehead. When she looked up, she muttered, "You have done nothing but—"

" _Look at me_!" His voice was suddenly half-shout, half-snarl. "My entire life, women have only ever wanted my money or my influence, else they have run screaming. I have _neither_ now. Leads a man to wonder _what the seven hells you want from me_."

She looked away, but she murmured, "I did not lie to you in that tent."

"Alyce… Gods… I'm yours. I'm yours." He reached to touch her leg, her arms, and then the bliss that had begun in Yezzan's tent was between them again. Her arms surrounded him, her warm, soft mouth on his. Her hands were in his hair, on the sides of his face, around his waist. He was in her lap making small groans as he tasted and bit and drank her mouth, his hands on her shoulders, in her hair…

She lifted him into her arms and he tried not to care how easily she could do so. She walked them to the bed and fell onto it with him, her mouth biting back hungrily. He felt her hunger, and it made him feel boneless, all except for his cock, which was hard as a stone. Raw touch forced out his doubts and his questions for the time being. She nuzzled his face, his head, and he laughed breathlessly.

She made him feel alive… She made him feel like a man.

He ran his palms over her breasts gently and brushed his fingers between her legs, but she made no move to touch him where he throbbed for her. He was so accustomed to whores that he had difficulty understanding what this might mean. Luckily, her mouth, neck, hands, shoulders, hips—they were enough to satisfy him for the nonce. He was still orienting himself to the bliss of being able to touch her.

She was so hard…so unlike all the other women he had had before. She was angles and hard places as well as curves. Her stomach was hard as a board, her breasts soft but not buxom. She could sling him around easily. She did not just take a bite or nip—she bit back. She was altogether rougher and fiercer than any other woman he had lain with, and it inflamed him. He felt as if he could lose control with her—accidentally push or bite harder than intended—and all would still be well. She could take all his passion and give it back.

She had no feminine hair to fall about his face; she had no feminine softness to her hands. More than any other partner Tyrion had ever had, this felt like a meeting of equals. Wit to wit, hardness to hardness.

"You have not told me you love me in return," he breathed hoarsely, half in jest, kissing and sucking the skin of her neck while her nails raked his back through his shirt. One of her hands slid up into his hair and fisted there.

"You're a fool to say so." She buried her mouth in his hair and kissed and kissed him. "I have said it many times. When I pulled you from the Rhoyne. When I breathed you back to life. When I lay curled at your side every night while you lay without waking. When I held you under the furs to warm you. Every time I stepped close to you in protection…" He kissed her quiet.

"Would not any shield do the same?"

She smiled a little. "Becoming your lover was not in my vows. And I do nothing with men I do not wish to do." There was a bit of a bite to her words.

Tyrion could well believe her.

She parted them slightly so she could lie on her side. He followed suit, moving in close to her on his side. There was such warmth and affection in her face, so radically different from her expression outside in the halls, in the throne room… He felt as if her tenderness was a precious rarity. A secret only for him. Something he alone owned.

He wanted to breathe her in and never part from her. She traced her fingers down his face gently, her eyes in his. He touched her mouth and delicate jaw with his fingers.

"It's lucky you weren't given a tattoo like Mormont," she murmured, grimacing.

"I'm glad that was not the case as well."

"You three were on a ship that got picked up by slavers?"

He nodded. "We were headed to Meereen by way of the _Selaesori Qhoran_. She got caught in a storm and was damaged—floating low and listing. After almost twenty days of drifting, a slaver found us. We were boarded and all taken prisoner."

Alyce was frowning, her thoughts far away. "You could have been sold to _anyone_ —gone _anywhere_. I might never have found you…"

"The Yunkish have one of the few remaining slave trades open on the coast, and they are all here besieging the queen. It was not as small a probability as all that." He kissed one of her fingers absently, then asked, "Tell me—what is the queen like? Composed and judicious, it seems to me… Is there any madness there?"

Alyce shook her head. "None. She is much more Rhaegar's sister than Aerys' daughter."

"That is good to hear."

"She is wise for her years, kind, and fierce, but is still a girl yet. She is only around sixteen… Pretty men and impressive feats capture her interest more easily than things solid and wholesome."

There was a slight irritation in her voice that caused him to ask, "What makes you say so?"

She sighed. "Prince Quentyn Martell came to make a pact with her. A marriage between them would deliver her Dorne, with all its resources and swords."

"Isn't she pledged to another?"

She shifted restlessly, "Yes, this Hizdahr of royal Ghiscari blood. But don't you agree that she should not be giving herself away for the good of this continent? What of the home that she wishes above all to one day rule again? Putting aside Hizdahr and accepting Quentyn instead would get her so much closer, instead of this alliance, which only pushes her father away and ties her more tightly to this desert waste."

Tyrion was nodding. "If she wants the Seven Kingdoms, she should not ignore such an opportunity."

"But she refuses to leave her people—these slave peoples she has freed and feels responsible for. And Prince Quentyn is homely and inexperienced. As I said, she is young."

"When is the wedding?"

"In a week only."

He frowned thinking, and then suddenly another thought seized him. "Have you seen the dragons?"

She smirked. "They're real as you or me, as I promised you they would be. You doubted."

"It's said the last one died around a hundred and fifty years ago. It is not possible for an extinct animal to rise again, so they must not have truly been gone." His eyes were bright with the fire of excitement. "What are they like? How large are they? What are their names?"

Alyce laughed a little, caressing his face. "You will see them soon enough. I have only seen two, both smaller than the reputed largest—her black dragon, Drogon, named after her dead Dothraki husband. She says Drogon is out 'hunting,' but her other two are confined in a pit beneath this pyramid, so I suspect he was never contained or escaped, and they cannot bring him back. The other two are green and white, I would estimate perhaps fifteen or twenty feet in size, and the green is Rhaegal, and the white Viserion. I do not know their genders."

"Named after her brothers."

"Yes."

"Dragons have no external sex organs, so it's difficult to determine their gender, and writings and histories often contradict one another," he mused. "Septon Barth in the time of King Jaeherys the Concilliator wrote that dragons are not restricted to one gender. I tend to doubt that, as many historical dragons have seemed to possess a fixed sex. Balerion and Verminthor were male, Vhagar and Silverwing female. Maester Yandel's commentary in _The World of Ice and Fire_ indicates that he believed a dragon to be female if it laid eggs and took the fact that Vermax was never observed laying eggs as proof that it must have been male.

"The last Targaryen dragon which died during King Aegon the Third's reign has been referred to as female, as it left several eggs. Yet the dragon Caraxes has been referred to as both male and female. I wonder what the queen thinks of her dragon's genders."

"It's possible she doesn't know, but she named them all after men."

He nodded, thoughts distant. She ran her hand over his side—up through his hair and then back down over his waist and hip. She had not had enough of touching him. There was possession behind her touch, and relief as well. She kissed his forehead.

"You are a deal tanner than you were," he murmured to her, gazing at her. His eyes widened slightly. "And your leg. Let me see it." Alyce made a noise of annoyance as he sat up and wrenched her leg toward him. He fingered her tough, tight, dented scar tentatively. "This must have taken ages to heal."

"Almost two months? I have not kept careful track. It is not yet quite entirely recovered."

"You can walk alright on it?"

"Now," she admitted after a pause. "I had to use a cane for a long time… But it's stronger now, and more so every day."

He fingered the scar gently, frowning. "Wounds this wide can go sour. It could have killed you."

"I know a good deal about tending wounds. I was careful."

"Good." He ran his palm over her leg gently.

"You have an old bruise under your ear." She nodded her head at it. He nodded.

"I was a slave, and mouthy slaves get bruises."

"You should be the master of your wit, not the other way around."

"One would think." He groaned softly, lying back down beside her. "But once one makes a habit of bitter japes, habits are difficult to change."

"Don't change," she said gently. "Although, perhaps they shall be less bitter now."

He turned his head to kiss her shoulder. "Until you leave me like the rest."

"There has been a few, hasn't there? The King's Landing whore…Sansa Stark…the woman you killed your father over. Who was she?"

Tyrion was grimacing and she could feel a chill creep over them. This was a topic that stilled pained him.

"There were a multitude of reasons I murdered by father, and that is just one of many. Perhaps another time I will tell you that story." After a pause, he added, "Lysa Tully also rejected my father's proposal to offer her me, arguing that a 'whole man' was required, though considering she is a murderous lackwit, I count that as a great blessing."

His wry tone hid the bitterness behind such a memory. To bring such embarrassment and shame to his house could not have been easy. She had known since Pentos that he was a broken man, though she had not realized in just how many ways.

To soften him and bring back his warmth, she touched his face, brushed back his hair, traced the line of his jaw with her fingers. His mismatched eyes slowly softened again and she leaned in to kiss him gently. The kiss deepened, and soon he was on top of her. When he sensed her reluctance, he exercised restraint, and after a time drifted back down onto his side beside her. Alyce held him. Having him back in her arms was a blessing she was still a little drunk on.

"And you?" he asked. "Is there some lord or fisherman's son or assassin that I must worry about avenging themselves on me now?"

She laughed softly. "Tyrion, hear me. I lie with whichever men or women I desire. I have had a great many. Perhaps not as many as you, _Imp_ , but a respectable number. I am faithful until I am bored and am finished with them. And I warn you, I may eventually grow bored and finished with _you_. But know that now—while I am with you—it is because I desire you, and because I am fascinated by you, and for no other reason. These other women, these whores and ladies—their desire was a lie. They wanted other things from you. Mine is real as bread. If it ever disappears, you will know. But I hope you will not regret the feast merely because it must end."

Tyrion was quiet, watching her face. His expression was difficult to read. "You speak as if you have ever told a falsehood with your body. But I would wager that you have used your body to get what you wanted—or what Varys wanted. Am I wrong?"

She sighed. "…You aren't wrong. And I see your point—that it is difficult to believe my assurances of sincerity knowing my capacity to lie about such things for gain." She put a fingernail between her teeth and bit it absently. "Well, I suppose it is your choice whether or not to trust."

"I've made the decision." _Whether or not it destroys me again._

She tightened her arm around him. There was quiet for a minute, and then he queried, "'Women you desire'?"

She chuckled. "You're already using your imagination on that point, so enjoy that."

"Was it for show?"

She propped herself on an elbow. "Was Renly's desire for Ser Loras for show?"

"I imagine not."

"Then you should be able to make the logical leap that a woman's desire for a woman can be equally genuine."

"Well, I won't fault them, as I believe women are the far more desirable of the two sexes."

She giggled. He pulled her in for a kiss. They lay close together on the pillows, noses almost touching, and trading murmurs. He made her smile often and she oft quieted him with a kiss. At one point, she rose to extinguish every candle and lamp but one beside the bed, and before returning to the bed, slipped her outer clothes off and climbed back in in only her smallclothes. Tyrion watched her as she did so and she saw the lust in his eyes.

"You have seen me naked before, Tyrion." He was gazing at her as if he had not.

"I should like to see it again."

"And I should like to be a hundred leagues away from here sipping wine with you on some peaceful island."

This seemed to distract him from his gazing. "Truly? You would wish to be elsewhere? We are guests and advisors to the great dragon queen. Our efforts could shape the world. And you want to be wasting away on some island?"

"A quiet, sunny island," Alyce corrected wistfully, smirking a little, "with more greenery than this damnedable desert. And a lake to bathe in."

"You're mad. This is the only place for the likes of you and me."

She pulled the bed covers out from under them and pulled over them a thin blanket; the room was cooler than the room next to Daenerys' bedchamber had been, but still not cool enough for heavier blankets. "We are surrounded by enemies here. Besieged, cut off from the sea, and before Hizdahr's peace, we were attacked within the city and even sometimes within this pyramid."

"You would grow _bored_ on your island—admit it." He was also disrobing; he stripped down to his undershorts, tossing the garments off the side of the bed. He moved with a self-conscious lack of grace. The movements of his shortened limbs were comical and tragic at the same time. _How is it that I love him so dearly?_

"Yes, yes, I admit it," she replied. "And Varys sent you to help the queen, so there is no help for it, anyway. You are stuck with her and I am stuck with you."

Tyrion chuckled and tucked in close to her. She shoved her arms under and around him, pulling him against her and into her embrace. He kissed her and they kissed tenderly until she grew drowsy. They continued mumbling to one another in the dimness, and when she fell quiet, for once Tyrion Lannister fell asleep easily.

…

 _The story will resume with_ Part III: Fire and Blood.

…

.


	30. I: Together

.

 _Author's Note to Readers:_

I am not currently planning to take this story further than the HBO timeline has progressed, so I am taking this time now to warn you that this story will hang, unfinished, either until I have more material to work with, or I suffer some sort of fit of inspiration. I apologize if it leaves you unsatisfied, but don't bother _me_ about it—bother George Martin about getting _Winds of Winter_ out before we all die of old age, ha.

Do please consider reviewing! I really, really enjoy getting them, and I also take them seriously, too.

As always, thank you, & enjoy,

Love,

—L&P

…

 **AND OF SUCH FOLLIES**

 **Part III: Fire and Blood**

…

 _I have come to you broken  
Take me home  
And my body bears this trouble  
Take me home  
Take me back to my beginning  
Before the hell of night set in  
And I came to this border  
Take me home_

—'Starlight,' The Wailin' Jennys

…

I.

Together

 **A** s she had gone to sleep so late last night, Alyce Waters slept a little past dawn.

She woke quietly, disoriented; this was not her usual room in the pyramid. Her features softened in the orange morning light as she remembered where she was and whom she held in her arms.

Tyrion Lannister was snoring very softly, and she suppressed a laugh. She nuzzled him gently, kissing his dirty-golden hair. As she kissed him, he stirred and opened his eyes.

"Time to wake, love," she murmured gently. The warmth of the smile that lifted his face made her glow. She feathered kisses on his brow. He snaked his arms around her neck.

"It's not morning," he replied. "The dragons have set fire to the city and that is the orange light. We have all morning in which to stay in bed."

Alyce kissed his mouth softly, half-smirking. "Oughtn't we to help rescue the city?"

"The hells with the city," he mumbled into her mouth. Her smile stretched wide, so unless he wanted to kiss her teeth, he had to pepper gentle kisses around her mouth instead. His hand curled around her neck, holding her head close to his.

"Only one day in the queen's service and you have already failed her. How shameful."

"Other priorities took precedent."

Alyce giggled. One of his legs had eased its way between her legs and was rubbing her gently where she was beginning to burn. She flicked her tongue against the inside of his cheek and made a soft moan.

A knocking came at their door that made them both flinch.

A measured Unsullied voice called, "My lady? The queen Her Grace requires your presence this morning."

"Seven bloody hells," Alyce sighed under her breath, rolling out of the bed fluidly. She raised her voice. "I will attend Her Grace shortly!"

The sound of Unsullied boots faded away.

"He lies," Tyrion jested, gazing at her from the bed. His arousal tented the thin blanket. "The pyramid is entirely full of the queen's enemies now that the dragons have gone. He is trying to draw you into a trap."

Alyce was snickering again. She pounced back into the bed like a mountain cat, straddling him and kissing him hard. "Enough. You must not make a poor impression today." She squeezed his cock through the blanket, making his eyes flutter closed in pleasure. Then she rolled back off the bed and began to dress.

Tyrion lifted himself onto his elbows and exclaimed, "Wench!"

Smirking, Alyce went to the privy for a piss. When she came back out, she pulled on her the silk wrap from yesterday on over her brassiere, tying it behind her neck, and then pulled on her loose-fitting pants. She slipped her sandals back on as she firmly belted her weapons to her waist. Tyrion was dressing as well, grunting. Alyce fetched some provided clothes and boots for him. The clothes did not fit him well, but she knew soon he would have clothes that looked better on him. He too made a quick trip into the privy, and then she led him out of the room.

She locked the door behind them, then began down the hall, telling him, "Try to memorize the way." She led him to a grand pillared balcony with small circular tables. "Breakfast here," she told him as servants came up to them. "I must see to Her Grace."

Tyrion looked as though he should have liked to argue, but she was standing and walking away before he had the chance. As he watched, to the one guard she had at the entrance to the balcony, she instructed, "I will return soon. Guard Lord Tyrion. By no means allow Daario Naharis near him."

Alyce climbed the one more level to Dany's apartments. The Unsullied guards let her inside.

" _There_ you are," Dany said. She had already finished her breakfast and dressed. Irri, Jhiqui, and Missandei were in attendance, and though Daario was gone now, the scent of his sweat and cum lingered in the bedchamber. The queen sat in a peach-colored dress on a cushioned seat, and Alyce sat beside her and lifted a hand to stroke her hair.

The queen asked her, "How is your dwarf?"

"Better now he has his slave collar off and is not being beaten." She grimaced, then her face lightened again. "He is well. And eager to meet your dragons."

Dany pursed her lips. "No, not yet, I think. First we will get to know one another and he was tell me what he knows of dragons. I should like to cease being ignorant of my children as soon as possible."

Alyce was nodding. Dany turned her head to look intently at her. "Are how are you? How are you both?" She was inspecting her face. "You look happier."

Alyce smiled very slightly. She was not the sort to be frank about her emotions, so she merely replied, "I'm relieved he's safe."

Dany's eyes found a small bite mark on her neck, and she smirked. "Of course."

Alyce rolled her eyes.

"He is not so ugly," Dany said judiciously. "Excepting the scar and his size. His face is rather handsome."

"Don't patronize. I care nothing for his looks, of which he has none."

Dany scrutinized her face, and then smiled. She told her, "I assigned a couple young servant girls to be the little dwarf girl's company so she won't be lonely or frightened—and to take the task of taking care of her off yours and Lord Tyrion's shoulders. I thought perhaps there might be something between them, but the look on his face while she was speaking in the throne room…"

"He says there's nothing between them, and to be honest, I'm grateful she's being taken care of so she won't take up much of his time."

Dany nodded.

"I have him breakfasting on the level below," Alyce told her. "But he'll need to be measured for clothes today for the seamstresses. He would benefit from regular duties—he is not one to be idle. The pyramid library will engage him for a time, but—"

"Yes, I should like to have him near me so I might get to know him and learn what he knows. Ser Barristan will step in if he should tell me falsehoods."

"He will not deceive you, Your Grace. He wants peace in the Kingdoms the same as us all. He wants you on the throne."

"What if I have to have all his remaining family killed? What would he feel then?"

Alyce paused, then replied, "His sister and brother I believe he has completely turned against. He and his sister have long despised one another, and from what I have heard from good sources, she is a paranoid and hot-tempered woman. His brother is a more complicated matter. Ser Jaime helped Lord Varys free Tyrion from his cell before he was to be executed. I heard they were close in the past… But Tyrion seems to want him dead as well. I haven't heard his true opinions on it—I have only heard what he as told to other people.

"But I do know he would not be comfortable condemning are his niece and nephew, little King Tommen and Princess Marcella. Unlike their elder brother, they are sweet children, and Tyrion is not the sort to wish a child dead, especially his own blood."

"He says he killed his other nephew himself! The boy Joffrey."

Alyce took her hand so that Dany would give her her full attention. "That is a complicated matter, love. When Joffrey died at his own wedding feast, Tyrion had been forced by the boy king to be his server. When the boy began to die of poison, Tyrion was standing there like an idiot, the most obvious suspect. Of what you can tell of Lord Trion, do you think that if he wished someone dead, he would have orchestrated it so that he would be standing there in that way?"

"Doubtful."

"And yet none of Lord Tyrion's family tried to protect him or even give him a fair trial. They all turned on him as one. And at the trial, hundreds of people were trotted out to lie about what a monster he was, when everything Tyrion had done since arriving in the city had been to provide more food for the common people, keep the city safe from Stannis, and make sure there was as little corruption as possible in the legal systems of the capital. He saw proof that no matter what he did or how hard he tried, he would always be seen as a monster. Why not become exactly what they will always think he is?"

"Do you know who _did_ poison the king?"

"No… If Varys himself knew, he didn't tell me. So many people stood to benefit from Joffrey's removal—even his grandsire. Joffrey was proving too wild to control. Lord Tywin himself could have orchestrated it. Or Queen Margaery and the Tyrells, because Joffrey had tormented Sansa Stark, his first betrothed, and it was likely he would try to do the same to young Margaery." Alyce pursed her lips. "Tyrion became the unquestioned scapegoat. Only his brother tried to help him—Lord Commander Jaime and Lord Varys freed Tyrion from his cell the night before he was to be executed, but Tyrion seems genuine in his hatred of Jaime as well. I'm not certain where it comes from or if it is genuine. I will try to get to the truth of things in the coming days."

"Even if he didn't kill Joffrey, if he is averse to condemning his sister's children, we are still at an impasse there. His other nephew sits my throne." Her eyes were hard.

"Aye…" Alyce sighed. "But the boy is just a child. If his true bastard lineage could be proved, it could discredit his claim and avoid the need for bloodshed…" She changed the subject. "What became of Ser Jorah?"

Dany's expression flickered. She glanced at Alyce and then away. "He is here. I have allowed him to remain, to rebuild trust between us with loyal service. I still do not know whether it was the right choice. Why should the people trust a queen who can't keep her promises?"

"The promise was not one between you and your people, it was between you and Ser Jorah."

"Those who heard of his banishment will now hear of his forgiveness. They will think me easily swayed."

"Are you easily swayed?"

"I should think not."

"Then it doesn't matter."

Daenerys looked sharply at her. "Sometimes it is only my Unsullied, my freedmen, Irri, Jhiqui, and Missandei whom I trust. All the rest of you could have other loyalties. Ser Barristan served the Usurper, Ser Jorah as well. My Stormcrows were against me before they turned, Reznak and the Shavepate were both of old Meereen, you serve the Spider who served the Usurper, are his _daughter_ , and your Lord Tyrion brother's slew my father. Do I not sound a fool?"

"That is why, but for a few, a queen is always alone," Alyce snapped back in response, picking at the leavings of the queen's breakfast platter. "Ultimately, it is only your own judgement you can trust. Your alliances are your own choice, and no one else's."

Dany gazed at her. "You are so waspish that no one with half a wit would assign you to attempt to weasel into my good graces."

"I can be _perfectly_ courteous if I so choose."

"I have _never_ seen you courteous, not since I met you. I like you for it." Dany watched her eat, a smile returning to her eyes. "I'll have Lord Tyrion measured today, and for the time being, he shall have the same duties as the rest of my councilors."

Alyce nodded. Dany stood. "Let us join him."

Ser Barristan was waiting without. When Dany, Alyce, Ser Barristan, and Dany's retinue of Unsullied guards entered the columned balcony, Tyrion rose and bowed handsomely.

"Good morning, Your Grace."

She inclined her head. "Lord Tyrion. I hope you are satisfied with your bedchamber?" She looked luminescent in her peach silk dress, but so young, especially with her waterfall of beautiful spun-silver hair. She took up a seat beside him. Alyce followed suit; Ser Barristan and the Unsullied remained standing.

"Very much so, Your Grace. It is even larger than necessary—a man such as myself does not require much space."

She smiled at his quip. "It is my desire that you are to take upon yourself the same duties as the rest of my councilmen. There will be a meeting at sunset every other evening in the council chambers on the same level as your room. I should also like to be personally educated by you on the subject of dragons. Perhaps you might accompany me during the day, educating me in spare moments."

"I would be most honored."

"And in the evenings when I am occupied, Alyce tells me the great library in the lower levels of this pyramid might be of interest to you."

"She told you truly, Your Grace."

"Good." Dany turned to her old knight. "Please sit, Ser Barristan. It is a lovely morning, our conversation might be long, and I shouldn't like to keep you standing."

Wordlessly, the knight took up a seat beside Alyce. The table was smallish and circular, so there was only one empty seat between him and Tyrion. The setting was intimate and rather like they were all taking tea together like good friends. Alyce stifled the impulse to giggle. She plucked an orange off Tyrion's tray and set to peeling it. The citrus scent tingled all their noses.

Dany turned to Tyrion again. "Yesterday Alyce made mention of a lady wife. I was not told you were married." She glanced very briefly at Alyce, who was busy with her orange.

"Before all the nasty business of King Joffery's murder, my father Lord Tywin commanded I be wed to the Lady Sansa Stark, who my family held captive. With the rest of her immediate family dead—"

"—at the hands of yours."

Tyrion grimaced. "Though the machinations of my family, yes, she was the sole heir of the castle and seat of Winterfell in the north. If I became Lord of Winterfell through marriage, my family would control the Seven Kingdoms from the north to the southern edges of Highgarden, with which my family is also now allied."

"So she was forced into marriage." Dany's opinion of that was obvious in her tone. "But forgive me if I speak in ignorance, but are there not other powerful houses still in rebellion against your family? Has the siege broken in the riverlands?"

"No, Your Grace. Brynden Tully, Lady Sansa's uncle, still holds it in defiance."

"His family has been massacred. I would defy to the death as well."

Tyrion acknowledged her point with a nod. Dany added, "And Highgarden is not the most southron point of the Kingdoms. There is Dorne as well."

"This is true, Your Grace, but my father was bringing all of what he could under his control. Riverrun and Dorne were lost causes at this point—lands to be conquered only by force or alliance once our strength was once again shored up."

"So you are the rightful lord of Winterfell _and_ Casterly Rock?"

"I believe it was my father's wish to stick me up with the northmen while he forced my brother, Ser Jaime, to rescind the white cloak and become his heir. That is of course until he decided he wanted me dead instead, for Joffrey's murder. He always intended for Jaime to become the next Lord of Casterly Rock, and when Jaime donned the white for your father, it complicated his plans… But my father's will has always been strong. He still believed he could eventually cow Jaime."

"Why would your brother take the white cloak if he had no love for my father? The glory of it?"

"Do you know the stories of my brother and sister? The rumors?"

Dany glanced at Alyce, then back at Tyrion in quick succession. "I have heard them. But were not those rumors spread by Lord Stannis to discredit your nephew's claim?"

"They were also true. None of my sister's three children were the children of King Robert's body. They were all Jaime's get." He paused, then continued, "I am not sure if you know, but my sister Cersei was intended for your brother Rhaegar for a time. The moment Jaime learned she would be taken from him at the Rock and sent to King's Landing, he took the white in order to remain near her. I do not believe there was any other reason behind his choice. Jaime is not the sort for heroics.

"So," he continued, "because the children are not of Robert's blood, by the laws of the Kingdoms, Stannis is the rightful heir to the throne, though the man does not inspire a whit of loyalty. The people do not love him, and I personally have no patience for the man. He has no sense of humor."

Dany was eyeing him. "So what do you want, Lord Tyrion? If we were to land in Westeros, would you want the north through your wife? Casterly Rock? Something else entirely?"

"I do not believe I shall know until the time. Power and alliances are always shifting, Your Grace. But I will not attempt to keep Winterfell. The northmen hate anyone by the name of Lannister, and I would never be truly safe there. I had no say in my marriage; I spoke against it, but was ignored. As you said, my family caused Lady Sansa incalculable pain. Forcing her to marry one of us—especially the most hideous of us—was cruelty. She was little more than a child, only just flowered. I did not consummate the union, and it can be put aside by the High Septon at any time."

Dany's eyes had softened. "That was good of you."

Tyrion shifted and continued, "My murder of my father was done for personal reasons, Your Grace, but it will help you immeasurably. Lord Tywin was ruthless—and brilliant. In his lifetime, he built our house back up to a great power from the ruin his father had left it in, and his cunning has kept him always on the winning side, whether that was Targaryen, Baratheon, or his own. The way he won this latest war was bloody and low, but win it he did. He was the strength and the ropes that tied the realm's alliances together and kept us in power in King's Landing. With him gone, it may be mere months or perhaps as long as a year, but my family will fall apart, and King's Landing with it.

"My brother has no taste for ruling, and does not have the nose for political cunning. With the loss of his swordhand and ability to fight, he has lost himself, and unless he finds a new way to define his life, he is a done man. My sister is paranoid and not nearly as clever as she believes herself to be. She suspiciously skirts genuine alliances in favor of surrounding herself with people she feels are _truly_ hers—lowbred sellswords and discredited maesters. These people cannot protect her. She does not realize how tenuous her hold on power is now. The Tyrells wish us to remain in power because Margery's new seat derives from King Tommen's, but my sister believes they are out to destroy her. She will soon be in too deep over her head, and without my father to save her."

Alyce was gazing at Tyrion, a small smile playing at one corner of her lips. His council on the inner workings of Westeros was exactly what the queen needed.

Alyce loved his mind. Tyrion was _brilliant_. In that, he was his father's son. He saw everything, and correctly inferred everything he did not see. The clever framing of all his sentences, the ironic tone lacing all of it, the hidden tenderness and sincerity that lay beneath… Alyce felt like hauling him into her lap and kissing him. She forced herself to look away and glance at the queen.

Daenerys too was watching Tyrion with an appreciative gaze. "I believe you _will_ make yourself useful to me, Lord Tyrion."

"That is my hope, Your Grace."

Alyce chewed a wedge of orange.

"I have a relatively open morning," Daenerys told him, sitting back comfortably in the chair while a gentle breeze lifted some of her hair. "Perhaps you would begin to tell me all you know of dragons."

"It will take longer than a morning."

"We have enough time for a beginning."

"As it please you, Your Grace." Tyrion turned to gaze out to sea. "It is said that the first dragons came from the far east, from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai and the islands of the Jade Sea. But no matter where they originated, they populated the known world in the ancient past. Dragon bones have been found as far north as Ib and as south as the jungles of Sothoryos. The emperor of Yi Ti, Chai Duq, kept a dragon at his court.

"Five thousand years ago, Valyrians, a modest community of shepherds, discovered dragons living in the Fourteen Flames—a ring of volcanoes in the mountains of their homelands on the Valyrian peninsula. Over time, they mastered the art of raising them and eventually used them as powerful weapons of war. They carved out a massive empire—the Valyrian Freehold—from the peninsula, and with years of bloody war, conquered the Ghiscari Empire, and then the Rhoynish and their cities. They also established numerous colonies to the west and to the north, which later became the Free Cities.

"But I am getting off the subject. The writings of the dragonlord's dragons—"

"No," Dany interrupted, "please continue about the Freehold. You explain better than I usually hear it told."

"I'm flattered, Your Grace. Let me see…"

…


	31. II: Aegon the First

…

II.

Aegon the First

 **T** yrion Lannister began his history lesson in the measured tone of a well-read lord.

"Valyria was ruled by the Lords Freeholder—dragonlords—the most powerful of the two score rival houses that competed for dominance. At its height, the Freehold was the greatest city in the world, the center of civilization, of modern thought, invention—and some say magic. It was a city of shining walls, wealth, and beautiful topless towers. It ruled half the known world—all of Essos west of the Bone Mountains. And your house, the Targaryen house, were dragonlords, but not of the most powerful of them. They were the only house, however, to establish a seat in Westeros, some say for purposes of trade between the continents; some say because Daenys the Dreamer, the daughter of the Head of House Targaryen at the time, prophesied Valyria's fall; and some say because they were exiled.

"And yet they ended up being the most fortunate of the lords, because a massive eruption of the Fourteen Fires—the Doom—laid waste to Valyria within a matter of hours. Some writings report explosions larger than can be conceived, some report a massive blanketing of grey ash from the sky itself, but whatever the explanation, their great civilization and the peninsula that held it were utterly destroyed. The land fell to pieces, crumbling into numerous small islands, and the sea rushed in to claim the charred craters, resulting in the Smoking Sea. All the dragons of the Freehold were said to have perished. And after Valyria fell, its conquered and colonized lands fell into chaos."

"The Century of Blood."

"Yes, Your Grace. The Nine Free Cities took their independence, only to fall into war against one another. And without the dragonlords to keep them at bay, the Dothraki emerged from the plains and laid waste to the lands surrounding their Sea. On Dragonstone, the Targaryens chose not to intervene, and instead hoarded their power. They had five young dragons with them, as well as a collection of eggs, the seeming last of their kind. In the years directly after the Doom, it appears that four out of these five died or disappeared under unknown circumstances. Balerion was the only one remaining from the original group, although two more were later hatched from eggs—Vhagar and Meraxes.

"For a full century after the Doom, House Targaryen shored up its power and allowed its dragons to grow in size and strength. Finally, at the end of the Century of Blood, Aegon, Lord of Dragonstone, used his dragon's power to crush Volentene aspirations in the Disputed Lands. This perhaps gave him a taste for conquest, because he then set his sights on all of Westeros. He and his sister-wives Rhaenys and Visenya, their dragons, and a small force, landed at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush and began the Wars of Conquest."

Dany's eyes were bright and intent; she was enjoying Tyrion's history lesson. "My brother Viserys remembered key parts of the Conquest—the burning of Harrenhall, the submission of the Vale, the loss of Rhaenys and Meraxes in Dorne, but most he remembered was murky."

"I know the details well enough, Your Grace. Firstly, the houses which ruled as kings and queens over the seven individual kingdoms: Torrhen Stark was King in the North; Ronnel Arryn was King of the Mountains and the Vale. Harren Hoare, or Harren the Black, was King of the Isles and the Rivers."

As he spoke, Alyce got up briefly to request parchment of a servant. Only a few moments later, parchments and ink were brought to her. She brought them to their small table and began to roughly sketch Westeros from memory, marking the lands Tyrion was describing, as well as scrawling the names of their rulers at the time of the Conquest.

"Lorren Lannister the First was King of the Rock; Mern Gardener the Ninth, King of the Reach; the Storm King was Argilac Durrandon; and old, balding Meria Martell was Queen of Dorne." Tyrion glanced over her map and nodded at her work approvingly. "Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya landed at the mouth of Blackwater Rush" —he put his finger on the map— "with less than two thousand men. They were allied already with Houses Celtigar, Massey, and Velaryon. House Rosby yielded Rosby to Rhaenys, while Stokeworth surrendered to Visenya after Vhagar used dragonfire on their roof. These were easy victories. The first test came from Duskendale and Maidenpool—Lords Darklyn and Mooton—who joined their power and marched to meet Aegon. Aegon sent his rumored half-brother Orys Baratheon to meet them while he descended from above on Balerion. Both lords were slain, and Darklyn's son and Mooton's brother yielded their castles and swore their houses to House Targaryen.

"After, Aegon sent his fleet to take Gulltown, but the Arryn fleet, augmented by Braavosi warships, defeated the Targaryen fleet and killed Aegon's admiral…whose name is alluding me at present. In response, Visenya descended on the Arryn fleet and burned their ships to cinder."

"Why did she not do so in the first place?"

"Aegon believed his fleet would be victorious without needing to endanger the dragons. He often attempted to win battles by more conventional means before endangering the three."

"Was that wise?"

"It's hard to say. Many thousands of his men were lost because of it, although it is possible that if he were not so cautious, he would have lost more than one sister and her dragon."

Daenerys called for more fruit; Alyce gave her a smile as she continued to fill in the map. She was rather proud of it; she had sketched the Fingers and the Vale perhaps too small and lumpy, but the rest was done well.

"Harren the Black's sons harried Aegon's march northwest toward the God's Eye and Harrenhal, and the Targaryens suffered heavy losses at the Wailing Willows, but Balerion fell upon the victors and burned longboats and sons alike. Harren summoned the riverlords to defend Harrenhal, but they defied him under the leadership of Lord Tully of Riverrun, who was the first of the riverlords to join their strength to Aegon. One by one the riverlords followed, and suddenly outnumbered, Harren sealed himself in his mighty castle. His hall was the largest and strongest fortress ever built in Westeros to this day. The tallest towers, the strongest walls, and thirty-five greathearths. It had taken three generations to complete. But walls cannot keep out birds, no more than they can guard against dragons.

"Balerion roasted King Harren and all of his remaining sons alive within their tower. Harrenhal itself was smote by dragonfire, seared to black and half-ruined. Aegon granted the great remains of Harrenhal to House Qoherys, which died away and were followed by more houses—Towers, Strong, Lothston—and each came to ruin. Rumor grew that Harrenhall was a cursed place. Stories rose of flaming ghosts, servants who turn to ash in the night, and Mad Lady Lothston who cooked children and served them on platters."

Dany made a face. "What do you make of the stories?"

"Oh, Harrenhal is cursed, but not by the stuff of children's horror stories. The stronghold sits in the watersheds of both the Trident River and the God's Eye—some of the richest and most fertile lands in all of Westeros. But even the richness of this land is not enough to produce the food necessary to support the massive army needed to fully garrison the place. Harrenhal is so ridiculously large that the rulers of it usually lose money simply by possessing it. It was also never fully repaired. It is a broken-down, empty place, which, because it cannot be manned to requirements, makes it actually far from a defensively-formidable fortress. The stories likely come from the ruin of the foolish houses that seek to try to hold it, or from the lonely echoes of its empty, soot-stained halls."

Dany was nodding, gazing at Alyce's blackened sketch of the castle.

"The ignorant often see Harrenhal as a great prize," Tyrion added, "but the only way to profit from the land it sits on is to man it with a skeleton force in times of peace."

"From Harrenhal, Aegon moved south into the stormlands." Dany's finger traced the road.

"Yes, Your Grace. The majority of Aegon's host turned south under the command of Orys Baratheon and accompanied by Queen Rhaenys astride Meraxes, and at the same time, Aegon sent Visenya to demand the submission of Crackclaw Point from its lords.

"Storm King Durrandon heard of their march, gathered his bannermen to Storm's End, and rode to meet his foe in the field. Rhaenys had seen their moves atop Meraxes, and advised Orys to fortify on the hills of Bronzegate to wait. Durrandon attacked the Baratheons and Targaryens during a howling gale. The Storm King broke through Orys' center on their third charge, but then faced Queen Rhaenys. Orys called for him to yield, but Durrandon cursed him. Orys slew the Storm King in single combat and the stormlanders threw down their swords and fled.

"Durrandon's daughter barred the gates of Storm's End and declared herself queen, but the castle's soldiers delivered her to Orys' camp where Orys took her for his wife and took the words and sigil of House Durrandon for the new House Baratheon. Orys was named Aegon's first Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Lord of Storm's End.

"Crackclaw had yielded without a fight to Visenya, but the two great western kings, Gardner and Lannister, had made common cause and assembled their armies. They met beneath the walls of Goldgrove, and together they commanded the greatest army ever seen in Westeros—fifty five thousand strong, with over five thousand knights." Tyrion smirked watching Alyce draw two crowns linked together at Goldgrove with a little heart above them. She sketched the enormous ranks of their army beside the crowns. As he spoke, she sketched arrows to show their movement.

"Aegon was camped beside the God's Eye, and when he heard of their coming, he advanced to meet them," Tyrion continued. "He had only a fraction of the men, and so was able to move more quickly. He met Visenya and Rhaenys at the Stony Sept and they advanced together. The armies met on the open plains south of the Blackwater. House Gardener commanded the center, with Lannister on the right and Oakheart on the left. The Targaryen force broke, but Aegon and his sisters attacked from the air on their dragons and the field of battle became the Field of Fire. Five thousand died and tens of thousands were wounded. Gardner and all of his kin were slain. Lorren Lannister managed to escape the carnage, but he and his bannermen were captured the next day and yielded. Lorren was named Aegon's Warden of the West. At Highgarden, Aegon found Gardener's steward, Harlen Tyrell, commanding the castle. Tyrell yielded it and pledged his support to Aegon. In reward, Tyrell was granted Highgarden and named Warden of the South and Lord Paramount of the Mander."

"King Torrhen of the North had been crossing the Neck with an army of northmen thirty thousand strong, but he was given news of the Field of Fire and of the Targaryen host south of the Trident, half again their size. Half his lords wished to attack, half wished to fortify Moat Cailin; Brandon Snow offered to murder the dragons in their sleep. Instead, Torrhen sent Brandon with maesters to negotiate a peace. The following day he crossed the Trident and yielded to Aegon, becoming Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North—and The King Who Knelt.

"What is left?" Tyrion peered at Alyce's map.

"Dorne," Dany answered.

"The Vale," said Alyce.

"The Vale—I know that story." Daenerys smirked. "The Arryns shored up their defenses and made Aegon an offer of marriage if he would name the young king heir—he refused, of course. The queen regent thought herself safe, but one morning Visenya flew Vhagar into the Eyrie's inner courtyard and the queen found her son sitting on Visenya's knee, asking to fly her dragon with her. They flew thrice around the Giant's Lance and the boy was no longer King of the Vale, but the Lord of the Eyrie and Aegon's Warden of the East."

"You have the story right, Your Grace," Tyrion told her, nodding. "Now Dorne perhaps is the most interesting story of them all. Dorne had learned from what had happened to every other kingdom—to Harren who hid in his castle and Lannister and Gardner who had met him in the field—and instead of openly defying the Targaryen forces, simply melted away into the Dornish mountains whenever the Targaryens came to see them submit. The Dornishmen led hit-and-run assaults on Aegon's forces, always melting away whenever they caught sight of the dragons. Aegon's force suffered under the Dornish sun, dying of thirst, only to always find every stronghold deserted.

"The Dornish played tricks—at Ghost Hill, House Toland sent a champion who challenged Aegon to single combat. Aegon easily slew the champion with his Valyrian steel, Blackfyre, but after he removed the corpse's helm, he saw it was Lord Toland's mad fool. Lord Orys Baratheon's assault on the Boneway proved a disaster—the Dornish launched a night raid on them, raining rocks, arrows, and spears from above. The bodies blocked the Boneway from both ends, and Orys and many of his knights were captured. Any castles that were not deserted were only garrisoned by the old and women and children, and were swiftly yielded instead of seeing them burned.

"Aegon and his sisters gathered what courtiers they could find and declared themselves the victors, leaving Lord Rosby in charge of Sunspear and an army under Harlen Tyrell to put down rebellions. But the moment Aegon and his sisters were back in King's Landing, rebellion broke in Dorne with a speed and efficiency that could only have been planned. Lord Tyrell and his entire army vanished in the sands between the Hellholt and Vaith, and Lord Rosby was killed in Sunspear, along with all his garrisons of knights and soldiers.

"Orys and his men, who the Dornish had been keeping, were offered for ransom for their weights in gold. Aegon accepted and the Dornish were paid and freed Aegon's men, though only after each had his swordhand chopped off so that they might never lift a sword against Dorne again. This enraged Aegon, and his dragons burned several Dornish castles. The Dornish retaliated, attacking the rainwood on Cape Wrath. The dragons struck again, and the castles of Starfall, Skyreach, and Hellholt were consumed by dragonfire. But a lucky shot from a scorpion at the Hellholt sent a bolt through the eye of Meraxes, killing the dragon, and she crashed from the sky along with her rider, Rhaenys.

"When dragons are young, Your Grace, they are vulnerable to spear and bolt and such. But as dragons mature, their armor grows stronger. When mature, a dragon is impervious to any weapon—excepting in their eyes. Its eyes are a mature dragon's only true weak point."

Dany took this in. "And when is a dragon said to be mature?"

"Well, dragons never stop growing as long as they live, and of course, maesters differ in their opinions. Some say it is when their fire becomes hot enough to melt steel. Some say it is a certain number of years—fifteen or fifty. For my part, I'm inclined to say a dragon is mature _when_ its scales are hard enough to turn away spears and swords and axes."

"How many years does this take?"

Tyrion scratched at the back of his hand. "At least a decade, Your Grace."

Dany sighed. Her dragons were only a few years old. She had a lot of time to wait until they were strong enough to be chanced in battle.

"Balerion the Black Dread was born a hundred years before the Conquest, but Meraxes and Vhagar were born on Dragonstone, and were only a few decades old, perhaps twenty years of age." Tyrion's eyes fell on the map again. "Rhaenys was Aegon's favorite wife. Visenya was a better and cleverer warrior, but sterner as well. When Rhaenys fell, Aegon's grief was formidable. Balerion burned every Dornish castle but Sunspear. Aegon either feared the rumors that Queen Maria had purchased means of killing dragons from Lys, or he was hoping to incite Dorne to turn on her. Both sides placed bounties on the heads of the other, and numerous assaults on Aegon and Visenya on the streets of King's Landing led Aegon to form the first Kingsguard. Visenya personally chose the men herself.

"Queen Maria of Dorne died of old age eventually, and her son, Nymor, became the ruler of Sunspear. He had had enough of war. He sent Meraxes' skull back to King's Landing with his daughter as a peace envoy. Their arrival angered the court, and Aegon seemed he intended to refuse the peace, but then he read the letter the princess carried. Whatever was in it moved Aegon to agree to peace terms. He never spoke of it thereafter."

"It was likely something having to do with Rhaenys," Daenerys commented. "It would have been the only thing that would have moved him. Perhaps they had helped with her passing kindly, or held her as an injured hostage."

"That is my own opinion as well, Your Grace," Tyrion agreed. "Later in the dynasty, this peace with Dorne was broken by Daeron Targaryen the First, who felt the peace was unfinished business, showed weakness, and that the Targaryen House should control all of the seven kingdoms, not just six. He had forgotten Dornish cunning.

"He easily defeated the Dornish in battle and his navy broke Planky Town. Sunspear submitted, and this Young Dragon left Lord Lyonel Tyrell to rule Dorne for him. But immediately, the Dornish proved impossible to rule, as they had before. Tyrell rushed from keep to keep chasing rebels. He was killed at some point in this by bites of hidden red scorpions that fell on him from his bed canopy, and all of Dorne rebelled overnight. All the Young Dragon's work was undone. The Submission of Dorne had lasted only a summer, and at the end of it all, Daeron died trying unsuccessfully to tame the rebellion. Aemon the Dragonknight was among his Kingsguard and was captured by the Dornish.

"After Daeron's death, his brother Baelor wished for peace. According to legend, he walked barefoot through a pit of vipers to rescue his cousin Aemon from the snakepit in which he was imprisoned. Though bitten numerous times, he did not die, and he brokered a peace with Dorne through marriage. It took two marriages, first Daeron the Second to Princess Mariah Martell and then later, his sister the first Daenerys to Prince Maron Martell, the ruling Prince of Dorne, to finally solidify the peace and bring Dorne in as the seventh of the Seven Kingdoms under Targaryen rule."

"Lannister tells it true, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said in his somber voice. "Dorne will never be conquered by force."

"Only by marriage?" Dany gave him a knowing look. "I hear you, ser." She looked away. "I will think on it."

Alyce was sketching scorpions in the Dornish section of her map. Tyrion caught her eye briefly and a corner of his mouth twitched upwards subtly. She winked at him.

"Do you have a guess at the genders of your dragons, Your Grace?" Tyrion asked her.

Dany looked surprised. "No…I suppose not. I suppose I see them all as male. They don't have any gender markings."

"No, that is where all writings on dragon gender agree, but from there they differ. Some say they can change their gender. Some say they have a fixed gender and those that do not lay eggs are male." Tyrion helped himself to some of the new fruit that had been brought to the table.

Daenerys thought on this. "There seems no way to tell yet." She shifted slightly in her seat. "Is it true that dragons prefer people of Valyrian descent?" she asked.

He nodded. "By all accounts, that's true, Your Grace." He scratched absently at his scar. "When Brown Ben Plumm was in your service, I would imagine the dragons might have seemed partial to him."

Dany looked surprised by his guess. "Yes, they were. He mentioned something about having a bit of Targaryen blood."

"I believe he's a distant descendent of one of the sons of Viserys Plumm who was rumored to be fathered by Aegon the Fourth."

Plucking some grapes off the stem, Dany glanced again at Tyrion. "Perhaps we could leave history behind for now and concentrate on other areas. Training, health, habits and the like."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Tyrion continued his lecture. He explained what, when, and how dragons ate. A fully grown sedentary dragon could go for weeks without food, but it mating season they had to eat every week. Some plants could heal their sicknesses, while others would make them ill. There were various ways to care for their claws and clean their scales.

Alyce listened, but also allowed her gaze to wander across the azure sky, its wistful, hazy clouds, and the red and bronze tops of domes in Meereen below them. It grew uncomfortable in the sun as the afternoon warmed, and they retired to a shadier table on the balcony. They were served cool water reddened slightly by pomegranate juice. Pomegranate seeds coated the bottom of the glasses. Alyce drank hers while it was still chilled, then chewed the fruit off the seeds one by one and spit them absently off to the side.

Tyrion was lecturing about the intelligence of dragons when a servant hurriedly crossed to their table.

"Your Grace, your discernment is needed where wedding preparations are being made," he said in a low voice.

Dany nodded and stood with a sigh. "Excuse me. I am to be wed in five days and it seems there is no ending of the planning." Her voice had a slight edge to it.

 _Five days._ Alyce grimaced and caught Tyrion's eye just for a moment as he stood to bow the queen out. Tyrion bowed low.

"It has been a pleasure this morning, Your Grace."

She nodded in response. "I look forward to the continuance of my education, Lord Tyrion. Perhaps we could make it a pattern of my mornings. There will be a council meeting this evening which I hope you attend. Alyce, I will speak to you there as well." With that, she turned.

Tyrion watched Alyce catch Ser Barristan's eye with a question in her brows as he followed the queen out; Barristan gave her an odd little circular motion of his index finger with a hint of dry amusement on his face, then turned fully and he and the queen left the balcony.

"What was that about, with Barristan?" Tyrion asked her immediately, making the odd little circular motion.

Alyce put her feet up on the glass table with a clank and stretched her legs out with a satisfied sigh, like she had been wanting to do it for hours. "Planning our meetings and things. It meant sort of 'after,' as in, we'll meet after he leaves Daenerys to her wedding preparations with other guards." She took a sip of tea. "I have a regular schedule here." She laughed a little. "I'll amend it now that you're here, but there still might be some times when I'll be obliged to leave you in the care of other guards." Her face was apologetic. "I'll make sure it is as little as possible. But I would trust these Unsullied with my life. Grey Worm, their captain, is an excellent young man. Clever, just, and a great fighter."

"'Grey Worm'? Daenerys still makes them change their names every day? I know it's a tradition, but I would have thought—"

"No. They could choose their names when she freed them, but he chose to keep what his was on the day she freed him."

"Ah." He was full of questions for her. "You mentioned a 'Daario Naaris' as you were leaving earlier? Who is this?"

Alyce's expression hardened. "Daario Naharis. He's the captain of the Stormcrows and Daenerys' lover. He and I have some bad blood. When he learns of your importance to me, he may try to hurt you to take some petty vengeance."

"Daenerys' lover? Does Hizdahr know? Why are you two at enmity?"

"He knows. Almost everyone knows." Alyce was scowling and she lowered her voice somewhat. "Naharis is roguish and handsome and clever in his insults, but he is unworthy of her. He's lowborn and crass. She shames herself indulging the affair—and he takes more liberties every day. The tipping point for me was when Prince Quentyn arrived. You know how I feel about the Dornish alliance. But Naharis treated the prince and his knights with gross discourtesy in front of Daenerys' entire throne room. I was furious, and I shamed and silenced him. He could not attack me in front of the queen and her court, but he tried to jump me later in the hall. Much to his surprise, it did not go well for him. Set Barristan separated us, but he made a great many threats before stalking off, and he's just the sort of vicious prick to see them through."

Tyrion was nodding slowly. "Tell me more of her court. What else so I need to know?"

Alyce told him of Skahaz mo Kandaq the Shavepate, Strong Belwas, Marselen—the commander of the Mother's Men, Symon Stripeback of the Free Brothers, Tal Toraq—the commander of the Stalwart Shields, and of Hizdahr's and Daario's various guardsmen and trusted men. She explained the Unsullied's leadership hierarchy and their usual guard patterns, and filled him in on all events of note she had been privy two since she had begun to be allowed to listen in on council meetings. Tyrion's eyes were thoughtful and brooding as he soaked in what she had to tell him. He peppered her with clever questions. His eyes lightened with appreciation whenever she shared intuitive observations or assumptions based on scraps of evidence pieced together. Alyce's training had taught her to see all there was to see, and she warmed with pride when it obviously impressed him.

"You're incredibly observant, Alyce," he murmured in appreciation.

She gazed at him, keeping her gaze just slightly teasingly aloof and cool. "Yes, I am."

His eyes crinkled slightly with amusement. She continued, with a lift of one eyebrow, "You're rather impressive, yourself. While you were retelling Aegon's Conquest perfectly from memory, I felt like hauling you onto my lap. But it would have been a bit untoward in front of Her Grace." She bit her bottom lip with her teeth, a humorous glint to her blue eyes.

Tyrion's eyes were smoldering in a way she had begun to delight in. He began in a playfully seductive tone, "The first of the Wars of Conquest lasted for more than two years and ended with Aegon the First anointed king by the High Septon in Oldtown—"

Alyce threw her head back to laugh, and then Tyrion could not help but laugh as well when she scraped her chair close to his across the brick and did haul him into her lap to kiss him. Her arms tight around him, Tyrion pulled her face to his, and their mouths fused—hard—tongues dancing in a play of sensation that melted the marrow of his bones with heat.

At length, Alyce broke her mouth away to laugh a little—breathlessly—and buried her face roughly into his neck. She kissed a line beside his ear from temple to jaw and onto his shoulder, and he fisted her hair in his hands. She kissed him soundly on the mouth, taking his face in her hands, but then she stood with him, turning, and left him on the chair. He stared at her.

"I must go meet with Ser Barristan. I shouldn't keep him waiting."

"You are nothing but a tease." Tyrion ran a hand through his tousled hair, his blood electrified, his erection throbbing.

"Your assumptions are too hasty." She was belting on the shortsword she had kept on the ground during his lessons.

He was still breathing double-time. "When the bloody hell will I see you next? What am I to do with my time?"

"I won't be gone long and I'll send a veritable retinue of Unsullied to guard you, and they'll be able to direct you to the pyramid's library, if you wish to see it. Then we'll have all afternoon and early evening until the queen's council meeting. She mentioned she wished to see me after, so perhaps we shall have to part again then, but then we'll have the night." She bent to kiss him hard again.

"Have you seen Mormont?" he asked when she allowed him his mouth back again. "Did she allow him to stay?"

"She allowed him to stay and prove himself with loyal service."

Tyrion looked relieved, and then he focused on her again. "You have an _hour_."

She laughed at him. "I shall take the time I take." Her expression sobered. She touched his face. "Be safe. Don't leave the pyramid. And do _not_ get kidnapped by another knight, mm?"

He rolled his eyes. "I shall do my very best."

"Stay here until the guards come, then you can go wherever."

"Am I able to see the dragons?"

"Alright, you can go _almost_ wherever. Even if you _could_ see them, it would not be wise to go where they are kept without the queen, Tyrion. She is the only one who can come close to controlling them."

He frowned slightly at the very serious tone of her voice.

"Your word, Tyrion," she murmured. He loved the sound of his name in her voice, and it made up for the humorlessness of the moment. When he nodded with only a touch of dryness, she touched his hand in goodbye and then left the balcony, speaking briefly to the one guard that was at the entrance to the balcony. She waited until he returned, nodding, and then left.

She walked as fast as she could while maintaining decorum to Daenerys' suites. The queen was out, but Alyce was after her mail and leather, left arranged for her by the servants after its cleaning yesterday. She donned them, and then let herself swiftly down to the gallery where Barristan was waiting.

"I apologize, ser. Lord Tyrion had a great many questions for me," she told him, a bit out of breath and rearranging her mail when she reached him.

Ser Barristan turned from looking out across the city, unconcerned. "I imagine. What does he make of the queen?"

"He's impressed by her, and pleased to find her without the madness of her father."

"I still have my suspicions of him."

"I daresay you might always have them. It's a good thing, I think. I shall be his advocate and you his doubter. This way the queen gets fair council."

This response seemed to please him, and Alyce felt a little childish squirm of pride in pleasing him.

Barristan parted his feet unconsciously, aligning them with his shoulders, sliding into his stance of power and stability, and his face shifted into seriousness.

"I want to work on your overhand swings, Alyce."

"I don't often use them."

"Exactly. I can tell you feel both exposed when you lift and insecure of your own ability there. You won't rid yourself of this without practice, and you need to have confidence in your overhand for those moments when it is called for."

She nodded in acceptance, and Ser Barristan began calling for her to swing above shoulder-height and then blocking and barking out instruction. Perspiration jumped to Alyce's skin, but she concentrated deeply, matching his seriousness. Sometimes Selmy changed his engagement suddenly as to make an overhand swing the fool's choice, and barked out approval when her instincts kept her sword low.

To end the bout, Ser Barristan came at her in a flurry of moves. "Show me what you've worked on today."

Her face in a grimace of discomfort and both hands on her shortsword, Alyce forced herself to combat him with only overhanded swings. It was not a realistic bout; Barristan gave her time to go into the next swing, and her shortsword was not a match for his longsword. The practice in hypothetical went against her instincts.

"No," he said curtly when she bumbled her defense. "Again."

They engaged again and Alyce performed acceptably. Ser Barristan lowered his weapon, nodding. "We'll practice those again tomorrow and next switch you to longsword."

He had been talking of training her with longsword for the past few days. Alyce knew she would have to re-learn her balance and strength, but she had to admit to the practicality of it. She had been given training with a longsword, but had not returned to this training in years. She knew she should continue to be familiar with the feel and tactics of a longsword in case she was forced to fight with one.

"Shieldwork will be with that and after that," he added.

"I look forward to it, ser. Thank you." She gave him a respectful bow. She intended to meet briefly with Daenerys before tonight's council meeting in case Daenerys' words for her could not wait.

"Be in the council chamber with the dwarf when the sun begins to set."

"Yes, ser."

…


	32. III: Imoa Kijakthi

…

III.

 _Imoa Kijakthi_

 **T** yrion Lannister watched his sworn shield leave the balcony, her backside swaying both enchantingly and authoritatively in the airy Meereenese pants she was wearing. His heart was still thumping, his cock still hardened with arousal. He reached for a glass of water left on the table and downed it, buying himself time to cool down before he stood.

The guards Alyce had sent for arrived within a few minutes. They crowded at the door, faces impassive. Tyrion got out of the chair rolling his eyes slightly. With his absurd amount of personal guards in tow, he set off to find Penny.

The dwarf girl was taking her midday meal in a small, sunny room filled with women. There were two very old women at the table, seemingly overseeing the group, and two younger girls on either side of Penny—one a kind-faced girl perhaps in her late teens and another not yet flowered whose face looked oddly flat, her nose too small, and her eyes too far apart.

"M'lord Tyrion!" Penny exclaimed in a happy rush, standing up, when she saw him step in. She blinked with surprise seeing the retinue behind him crowding the doorway and the hall.

"And guards," he said, smiling to her and gesturing absently behind him to the Unsullied.

Penny's mouth had dropped open into a small 'O' and the other women were staring at him.

"Are you doing well?" he asked, smoothing over the awkward entry with gallantry. "Perhaps you could introduce me to your friends?"

"Yes," she said quickly. She came around the table and curtsied to him. "But are you alright? The queen was kind to you?"

"Very kind," he nodded.

She nodded back. "They said so, but I didn't know. Um—m'lord, this is Greena and Hizirun" —she gestured to the older women—"and Hizirun is Naqqa and Rhazi's grandmother." She indicated the younger girls by name. Rhazi stuck out a bit of her tongue with pleasure when introduced, her eyes a bit unfocused. "Greena and Hizirun teach the servant's children in the pyramid and Naqqa is training to be a translator—she's the only one who knows the Common Tongue, but she's teaching me a little Meereenese. I know 'breakfast' and 'sister' and 'grandmother' so far. Naqqa also takes care of Rhazi with Hizirun. Rhazi needs special help sometimes, but she helps Greena and Hizirun in the classroom—and she's nice."

Tyrion made a note to thank Alyce or the queen or whomever was responsible for Penny's placement with these women. Penny would be able to help them with their not-too-physically strenuous work, she would get something of a bit of an education, a sort of family unit, and would also be around people accustomed to someone with disability. She would not be singled out as the only person who 'needs help sometimes.'

Tyrion smiled warmly at the older women. "That sounds wonderful, Penny. That sounds really wonderful." He turned to Naqqa. "Naqqa, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm very grateful you are taking such good care of my friend. Would you please extend my greeting and gratitude to your sister, grandmother, and Greena?"

Naqqa nodded, her bright brown eyes finally moving from him. She spoke in Meereenese to the other women and there were nods.

"Thank you." He took a seat at the table, smiling kindly at Rhazi, and took a small slice of pear from a tray. "Do you need anything, Penny? Do you like where you're sleeping?"

She nodded. "Yes. I was frightened, but Naqqa—" Her eyes widened suddenly. "Is Ser Jorah locked up? Did she punish him terribly?"

"No no, Alyce told me that Queen Daenerys is allowing Ser Jorah to stay and prove himself to her with loyal service."

"Good." Penny was relieved again, her eyes growing moist. Tyrion sighed internally to see how emotional she was over his and Jorah's wellbeing. She was too sweet. Here, using all that emotional energy taking care of someone and getting a bit of education was the best thing for her. "I'm glad," she said, and then she admitted a bit bashfully, "I like it here. I can learn Meereenese and help in the classrooms. Have you seen the classrooms? They're so big! And it's so nice in this palace—it's the nicest place I've ever been, except it doesn't have any gardens."

"It's a pyramid, not a palace," he corrected gently.

"It _feels_ like a palace." She smiled a little.

Tyrion nodded and stood. "I'm glad to see you're happy. I should go, but next time I visit perhaps we can go find Ser Jorah and see him."

"I'd like that."

"Alright. I'll see you soon."

"Yes—please come and stay with longer in a couple days, m'lord?"

He nodded and stood and the Unsullied cleared to let him back out into the hall.

"Daxros," he addressed the only Unsullied boy among them who could speak some of the Common Tongue, "where is Ser Jorah Mormont staying?"

Daxos struggled with the words. "The floor three near-the-sun…ah… _line_ of rooms, near where you and the _imoa kijakthi_ sleep."

Tyrion nodded. He felt no real drive to see the knight—the man's wellbeing had stopped being his responsibility when they had been bought by Alyce and her guards down in the Yunkish camp.

"Alyce…your _imoa kijakthi,_ is it? What do you think of her?" Tyrion queried. He wondered about Alyce's rise to power in the pyramid and how she behaved when not around him.

The boy seemed a little stymied by the question. Perhaps it was unfair of Tyrion to think of him as a boy—he was the eldest of the soldiers around Tyrion, who all looked to be just out of their teen years. He was perhaps roughly Tyrion's age, though his clean shave and unexpressive face made him appear more smooth and boyish. And he was certainly a far more formidable man than Tyrion was himself. The blade of the sword on his hip was wider than Tyrion's wrist.

"The _imoa kijakthi_ …she is a _raksuctar_ woman—how one says…ah…danger, yes. Dangerable woman. And not polite our queen. This one was not there, but when she be bring, ah, to our queen, our queen asking how dangerable is she. The _imoa kijakthi_ ah…fight. Fight our queen. Not fight, but…"

"Attacked."

"Yes, attacked our queen. She could have killed. She no kill, but the Unsullied feel angry. No trust. But, not dangerable because the leg bad." Daxros mimed hobbling.

"She was crippled."

"Crippled. Use spear to walk. Not dangerable. But work very—very _hard_ to walk. Very strong…ah… How do you speak this thing?" He pointed to his head and them thumped a fist over his heart.

"A strong mind? A strong heart?"

"Ah, go forward?"

"A strong will, maybe."

"Like man, not woman. Train to be warrior. Now she guard our queen. She speak sweet to Missandei. Missandei speak good of her to Unsullied. Unsullied not trust…" He made a circle shape with his fingers.

"Entirely."

"Yes, not entirely trust, but some trust. Many day ago, Unsullied came into queen room quickly—very…" He made motions with his hands and feet. Tyrion tried to supply the words.

"Very loud? Running? Urgent?"

"Yes, loud, running. And the _imoa kijakthi_ go to feet, put our queen in—in behind, and pull sword. Very…" Daxros struggled with the words. "Very…give…safe."

"Protected her. She was protective."

"Protec-ive. Is good thing Unsullied see. We speak it each other. We speak: 'Did you hear how the _imoa kijakthi_ protec-ive safe for our queen? She is very fast protect-ive. She put queen behind her when she think danger come.'"

"Seeing that helped you trust her."

"Yes." Daxros glanced at him, then added, "She wait for you."

"Yes…she says she has sworn to protect me." Tyrion gazed at the hall in front of them. He wasn't sure where they were walking; he was just walking the pyramid.

" _Imoa kijakthi_ look down at road all day waiting. Pain skin look down road. Sad very face. Ask our queen to speak Unsullied to look for the small man. When she hear we find the small man and the large man in Yunkai camp, she…water here." He ran a finger down his cheek. "Very happy."

Tyrion nodded. His throat felt tight. He cleared it to loosen it.

One of the guards from further behind in the group said something to Daxros and Daxros nodded.

"Ah, yes. My brother speak more: _imoa kijakthi_ like very the Ser Barristan. Look at old man with baby eyes. It is funny."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, is Meereenese words. Hard explain. Ah, it mean… The meaning is she is his little one. She wants him for father. She want his good words. Is good thing. Is good thing Unsullied see. It is funny. She is like a baby dog for the Ser Barristan."

Tyrion could not help but laugh. The description of Alyce trotting after Ser Barristan Selmy like a puppy was sweet and so endearingly at odds with the persona she crafted of herself. His arms itched to hold her.

"Daxros, I imagine there are main halls in this pyramid, yes? The most used ones?"

"Yes, main halls."

"Will you show these to me? Help me memorize them? Learn them, I mean."

Daxros nodded. "We, ah, different direction go?"

"Yes, please lead us."

As the Unsullied guards showed Tyrion the connections between the main halls and how to find the main marble staircase, he occasionally passed servants and other odd occupants of the pyramid and made guesses at who they might be while they stared at him or politely tried not to. Alyce had vaguely sketched the appearances of some of the council members to him in description, but not all. He knew he would learn who was who tonight, however.

On the third level landing of the great marble staircase, Tyrion met Alyce as she was headed down, flanked by two friendly-looking Unsullied. She looked sweat-soaked but in a pleasant mood.

"There you are. I didn't even have to go looking." She smiled warmly and Tyrion's insides softened to butter. She looked to Daxros and spoke quickly but gratefully to him in Meereenese. Daxros gave a formal and respectful nod of the head and then led the Unsullied away.

"Where were you headed?" she asked him.

"They were showing me the way to my room from the main stair. I asked for a bit of a tour."

"Good idea. I'll show you, and then perhaps we can both wash up before dinner and the council meeting? I need a bath at least, even if you don't think you do." She had turned and started walking and he grunted and kept pace.

"Is it a race?" he muttered.

She slowed her pace, apologetic. "Has everything been alright since I left?"

"Perfectly. I visited with Penny—and by the way, are you responsible for her excellent placement with those women?"

"No, it's Daenerys' doing. You're happy with it?"

"More than happy. It's perfect for her. Please remind me to thank Daenerys tonight if for some reason I forget."

"I'll try to remember. By the way, we won't be able to share a bed tonight—"

Tyrion had abruptly stopped walking. "Why the bloody hell not?"

Alyce looked amused at his indignance. "Before you arrived, I would sometimes be one of Daenerys' bedmates. Her other girls bore her sometimes—she likes new stories and such. It won't be often—we've already discussed it just now—"

"Her _bedmate_? But you're not an unflowered chicklet like her other little handmaidens. It doesn't seem appropriate."

Alyce rolled her eyes. "Queen Daenerys Targaryen has asked me to sleep beside her tonight, my Lord Turtle, and what Queen Daenerys Targaryen asks for, she generally gets."

They were at their room. Alyce unlocked it and they went in.

"Despotism," Tyrion muttered. Alyce giggled.

"She's used to having me around her all the time as a personal guard," she went on. "Now I'm going to be around _you_ all the time instead. Yes, some of the time the two will overlap when you're accompanying her around, but it makes sense that she's feeling a little jealous of my company."

Tyrion sat down on a stool, his eyes not having left her. "Oh, this is absurd. You're a chore of a woman who has threatened her life. How did you ever make her like you enough to get jealous over your attention?" There was teasing in his eyes but his question was fairly serious.

"Honestly, I don't understand how she tolerates me, either." Alyce sat on their divan and Tyrion followed her over to the sitting area and struggled up into a chair.

"You're Targaryen catnip, you stupidly fortunate girl," he sighed indulgently. "The queen is going to have to widen these halls so that you can fit your enormous head through them."

She laughed.

He suddenly eyed her suspiciously. "You've bedded women before. Has the queen? Are you there for her pleasure?"

Alyce met his gaze. "Sharing her bed has been an entirely innocent event so far, but I will not lie to you—if that is what she tells me she wants from me, I would give that to her. And don't look hurt, Tyrion—imagine our roles reversed. If you had the opportunity to bed a Targaryen queen, you'd do it in a heartbeat without a thought for me, and don't insult my intelligence by arguing otherwise."

Tyrion frowned, but did swallow whatever he had been about to retort with. He replied, "I _would_ give a thought for you. It just likely wouldn't end up changing the outcome." There was humor back in his eyes.

Alyce had to giggle again.

He suddenly sat forward. "Alyce, we need to talk deceptions." His voice was low. "What have you told her and what haven't you? Are you pretending to be a girl from Maidenpool? Have you told her of Aegon? Of your parentage?"

Alyce's expression had sobered as well. Her eyebrows came together. "I decided the knowledge of Aegon wasn't my secret to tell. But she knows the truth of everything else. What are your own thoughts on whether or not she should be told of him?"

Tyrion looked uncomfortable. "I don't know," he told her honestly. "It might be best if she's told."

Alyce nodded, sighing. "So many secrets. I don't want to admit to her I've been hiding anything else. Perhaps, if you think she should be told, you could tell her and I could feign ignorance? I mean, I was supposed to be ignorant the whole time."

"Those from the _Maid_ could later discredit that deceit, but it's a small one, and at that point might matter less."

Alyce nodded slowly and sighed again. "She's been betrayed before. She does not take it well."

"You've been more honest with her than I could have believed if it's true she knows the truth of everything else." He looked doubtful. "You told her you're Robert's daughter?"

Alyce scowled at his phrasing. "I told her he sired me."

Tyrion's eyebrows were in his hair. "And she accepted it? And your intentions?"

"Seven bloody hells, my _intentions_ are _pure_!"

"Why should she believe that?"

"She can tell what the truth is."

Tyrion rubbed his mouth. "She's too trusting for her own good."

Alyce shrugged. "Perhaps. I would say I think she has good instincts, but then I look at Naharis…and her decision to marry Hizdahr over Quentyn…and perhaps not always." She glanced at a brass-framed clock on a side table. "But we need to wash and eat before the meeting. I'm going down the hall to the women's washroom."

"We have our own washroom here," he protested. "We just need to call for the water to be brought."

"And have you distracting me while I'm actually trying to get myself clean? No." She smirked slightly, putting a robe over her arm.

"But I _like_ being distracting."

"Back soon," she called, already slipping out the door. She locked it behind her and Tyrion deflated.

 _I've never had to wait so long._

When he realized that was true, he hated himself a little. _Because you've only bedded whores, you fool. Whores, and poor Tysha, but even with her, you didn't even have to wait a night._ There was Sansa, his child bride, but with her he was never waiting because he knew there could be nothing to wait for.

He called for a bath, washed, and then soaked in the water until it lost its heat, his thoughts elsewhere. When Alyce suddenly returned, he sat up in the bath with a slight splash.

"Not even out yet? You're like an old woman," she teased, putting aside her soiled clothes and coming to him in only a robe. She knelt beside the basin and touched his hair, stroking the back of his head and neck gently. Tyrion had been irritated with himself for a moment for not having clothed himself again before she returned, but that washed away as she continued to run her hand through his hair and look at him with that expression.

"Reminds me of the evening we met," she murmured. "I washed your hair in that room in Illyrio's."

"Pretending to be one of his servants." Tyrion was teasing her, but truly he warmed at the memory.

She made a dry face and looked at him pointedly. "Yes, and _you_ rolled out of bed announcing that you 'needed to piss' and that you wanted the other _whore_ back."

Tyrion grimaced. "Well now, months and months later, I'm begging your pardon for that. Am I forgiven?"

Alyce was running tender fingertips down his temple and cheek, eyes warm. "Only if I don't hear any more complaints tonight about the sleeping arrangements."

"Fine, but it best not be permanent."

"I wouldn't let it be." She leaned in to kiss him. The kiss ignited Tyrion. All the teasing they had shared earlier in the day had been the most delicious foreplay. He wanted her terribly. All around him, consuming him, cradling him, burying him. His mind blanked with deep, blissful pleasure, followed by a rushing whitenoise of desire. Heat flooded between his legs and he groaned into her mouth.

Hearing it, Alyce inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening on him, her spine curling inward toward him unconsciously. "We don't have time…" she whispered. "Tyrion…"

He was deaf to it as he moaned, his tongue exploring every delicious inch of her mouth. Alyce broke away to kiss every inch of his face and catch her breath.

He forced coherent thought through his mind. _Don't push. Remember that she's not one of your damned whores. You're a lord. Court like one._ He cupped her face gently and pressed his forehead to hers. He nodded. "I know," he murmured. He kissed her gently between her eyes on the bridge of her nose. "Any time I get with you still feels too good to be real. I'm grateful even if it's only moments."

She pulled back slightly to investigate his eyes and see if he was teasing her. When she saw only sincerity, her blue eyes melted and she was kissing him again with a tenderness that made him feel lost in the endless ether.

His mind only resurfaced minutes later when he could at length entertain thought other than how she tasted. "I shall wrinkle like a grape in the sun, sweet," he whispered into her mouth. "And the water is cold."

She broke from their embrace reluctantly, nodding, and helped him step out of the bath. She pressed a towel on him. They both busied themselves in dressing for a few minutes. Tyrion chose the finest of the boy's clothes he had been provided; he wished to make a formal first impression on Daenerys' council.

As Alyce saw to her face and hair, Tyrion took a rest on the bed, massaging his legs a little. When she came out of their washroom, she wore a loose beige dress, the neckline of which brushed only perhaps an inch or two above her nipples, displaying a liberal amount of beautiful skin, her elegant collarbone, and her breastbone. It tucked in at her waist with a thin brown belt which he knew would be covered in a mightier once she strapped on her weaponry. She had no weapons on her at the moment, however, and looked surprisingly normal and girlish, despite her pronounced musculature and shortened hair. Her hair had been growing since she had cut it before becoming a sellsword, and she had to style it somewhat to keep it from looking a bit absurd. Though he did miss her longer hair, the result was unimaginably sexy.

"My lady, you look…"

"Good enough to prompt a 'my lady' out of you, apparently," she teased, sitting beside him. She frowned at his clothes. "I should have asked a seamstress to come see you today. I forgot. We'll have to do that tomorrow. You need better-fitting clothes." She rolled his pant legs and sleeves more artfully than he had done himself and unlaced his pants to tuck the shirt into them. He allowed her to fuss with him, watching with a dry expression.

Alyce called for supper and they took a brief meal together on the balcony of their room. The balcony was small and cramped, but the shadow of a higher level balcony shaded them, and Tyrion appreciated this quiet time alone with her. As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, she hurried finished her meal, licking her fingers rather ingloriously.

"We have to go."

Tyrion stuffed a last forkful of lemoned greens into his mouth before he wiped on the linen napkin and hopped off the seat to follow her.

They went down only one level to a rather dim hall, then let themselves into two oaken double doors standing slightly ajar.

…


	33. IV: As They Stand

…

IV.

As They Stand

 **N** ot everyone seemed to be in the council chamber yet, which Tyrion was glad of. No one had taken a seat. Alyce pointed to the head of the table. "That's the queen's seat. No one sits until she arrives. Wait for her to point you to a place after she sits down. You might be one of the last to sit, but that's alright. I'm going to be standing guard, not at the table." She was walking them to Ser Barristan as she spoke. She and the knight nodded curtly to one another.

"Lord Tyrion," Selmy greeted him coolly. Tyrion sighed internally. The old man was as suspicious as an old governess.

"Ser Barristan."

That was it for conversation between them. Alyce's eyes roamed those gathered and those who arrived, noting details and expressions. He couldn't catch her eye; she was absorbed in evaluating those assembled.

The Shavepate, the commander of Daenerys' Brazen Beasts, stood silently at the side of the room. Tyrion could not tell much from his rather cagey expression. The commander of the Mother's Man, whose name Tyrion had forgotten since Alyce had told him, stood with Symon Stripeback and Tal Toraq. A young man that could only have been Grey Worm, the commander of the Unsullied, stood still as a statue near the door. His face was perfectly impassive but he seemed interested in the conversations being murmured in the room—his eyes moved quickly between faces, following strings of dialogue. He looked like a young man both himself and Alyce would find tiresomely boring, but he knew the Unsullied were practiced in the art of concealing their true selves.

It looked as though none of Hizdahr's guardsmen were present. As Tyrion watched, a huge man with proudly-bared scarred chest and stomach pulled opened the doors wider and strode into the room. Tyrion knew the man must be Belwas, the eunuch warrior sent with Ser Barristan by Illyrio Mopatis.

The room grew slightly more restless as a number of sellsword captains entered—one with decidedly more swagger than the rest and blue hair and beard.

 _That must be Alyce's enemy, Daario Naharis. Daenerys' lover._ It seemed that the queen had grown fond of unruly warrior lovers in her time as a Dothraki _khaleesi._ Tyrion misliked Daario almost immediately, and not solely because of Alyce's warnings. The man was handsome and graceful, yet sneered and spoke basely. A gold tooth gleamed when he grinned. He was reminiscent of the child that always picked on the other children in the yard.

The entrance of two Dothraki fighters preceded the queen's arrival; the riders stood off to the side walls and Daenerys Targaryen strode in, looking every bit a queen. Those assembled bowed to her. She had changed her clothes since the morning; the dress she wore was a deep, dark blue, had firm, stiff shoulders, and concealed the valley of her breasts. She wore a golden circlet around her neck and her silver-gold hair was tied up at the back of her head with a mass of cascading curls down the back of her neck.

As she strode to the table, she eyed them all, nodding and trading greetings with each. Tyrion noticed that when the queen's eyes were on him, Daario Naharis' posture softened, as did his eyes. There was true fondness there, he could see plainly, so at least the sellsword was not a snake in the grass.

Daenerys took her seat at the head. Alyce remained standing with the other guards spread evenly against the walls—two Unsullied that must have been Grey Worm's best captains, and two Brazen Beasts—while Ser Barristan and others rest moved toward the table to take their places. Tyrion felt it was absurd that Alyce did not have a seat at the table but these Meereenese lickspittles did. Her knowledge of Westeros was equally as valuable as whatever some of these men might counsel.

Barristan took the place to Daenerys' right, Grey Worm to her left. Naharis took the seat beside Grey Worm, the rest of the sellsword captains taking places down the left of the table. The Shavepate, Belwas, and the commanders of the companies of freed men down her right side. Daenerys' Dothraki bloodriders stood behind her at both her shoulders, looking frightfully intimidating.

Daenerys was just finishing greeting her other councilors as Tyrion moved toward a seat at the end of the table on the right. Daenerys watched him and nodded an affirmative.

"Commanders, councilors," she began, "we have a new member. This is Lord Tyrion of House Lannister in the Seven Kingdoms. He is here to advise me on matters in Westeros and on the subject of dragons."

A few men murmured polite greetings, to which Tyrion nodded.

"A _tall_ task," Daario Naharis quipped. "I hope your Westerosi lord can rise to it."

"Predictable, captain," Tyrion drawled in response, looking and sounding deeply bored. "Every man who makes a joke about a dwarf's height thinks he's the only man ever to make a joke about a dwarf's height. 'The height of nobility.' 'Someone of your stature.' 'Someone to look up to.' You're all making the same five or six of them. Now, _sellsword_ jokes—those have a deal more variety."

Alyce's hand had drifted to her sword hilt. Naharis' eyes had narrowed.

But the queen leaned forward, commanding attention back to her, and Alyce's hand relaxed. "Now. My noble fiancé has sworn to me that by this time five days hence I will have no enemies." She eyed those assembled. "Until then…tell me of my enemies as they stand. The Astapori slavers coming north to us—do we know how many days away they are?"

"They move slowly, Your Grace," Ser Barristan answered her. "You will be married by the time they arrive, and according to Hizdahr and his men, they will honor the peace pact you have formed."

"Your Stormcrows will harry them on their way," Naharis pledged. "They will be slight and bloody by the time they reach us."

Alyce's mouth hardened. _An absurd boast. The Astapori strength outnumber the Stormcrows twice over._

"There are enough Yunkish sellsword companies for even your Stormcrows to content themselves with," Daenerys replied. "I saw the legions out of New Ghis have arrived." The armored and towered elephants and corps of Qartheen camelry had been difficult to miss.

"And two more Ghiscari legions have landed beyond the Skahazadhan," Grey Worm added somberly. Daenerys nodded, her eyes dark. Grey Worm continued, "But the Pale Mare has been cutting through huge swathes of the Yunkish ranks. My Unsullied have kept watch on the destruction of their numbers. All the Tolosi slingers are dead, almost _half_ the Yunkish Wise Masters, and many of their families. Deaths have been more sporadic in the companies, but perhaps a sixth of the Windblown, the Long Lances, and the Company of the Cat have fallen. Now my soldiers tell me it has spread into the new legions. Unfortunately, the disease is also killing the Astapori refugees outside our gates." He looked apologetic. "It spreads faster now. The people do not have access to the safer well water." He shifted. "It is difficult, but the closed gate protects more people from the pale mare than it abandons to it, Your Grace."

Daenerys nodded slowly, eyes pained, though the rest of her expression was carefully blank. Protection for the city of Meereen was why she had closed the gates, but Alyce knew abandoning people who had trusted her enough to follow her had left her heart bleeding. Alyce had heard of the horrors of the refugee camp. Babies with swollen bellies, men and women eating the dead, bodies left to decay in the sun and spread disease because there was no wood with which to burn them and no strength to bury them.

"When I wed," Daenerys told the table, "Yunkai will give us peace, but for a price. The ports will be reopened, but Yunkai and her allies require an indemnity, which I will pay in gold and gemstones, and…the Yunkai will resume slaving as before, in Astapor."

"The Yunkai'i have already resumed their slaving, Your Grace," the Shavepate said to soften these admissions.

"They resumed their slaving before I was two leagues from Astapor," muttered Daenerys. "Did I turn back? I want no war with Yunkai." Her gaze was hard on the far wall. "I shall marry Hizdahr in the Temple of the Graces, as is the Ghiscari tradition, and the only one that will be accepted in the eyes of the people, and as my wedding gift to Hizdahr…the fighting pits will be reopened."

Alyce glanced around the room briefly. This was new to her, but not apparently to most.

Ser Barristan added his counsel. "No ruler can make a people good, Your Grace. Baelor the Blessed prayed and fasted and built the Seven as splendid a temple as any gods could wish for, yet he could not put an end to war and want. I am afraid this battle against this reopening does not seem to me to be one you can win."

Daenerys' expression was stony and dark. She was obviously furious about the pits being reopened within Meereen's walls where those who were slaves in all but name would be forced to fight and die.

They spoke of food stores, the movements of the fleets in the bay, prisoners, and crime in the city. There had been no more attacks by the Sons of the Harpy, but the Unsullied were still unable to determine its leaders or meeting places. It grew warm in the room despite the cool of the pyramid.

Finally, Daenerys stood. "Thank you for your council. Good evening." It was a dismissal, and most bowed and departed. Daario remained. Alyce went to Ser Barristan's side and Tyrion stood and joined them. The three turned aside when Daario took Daenerys' hands.

"I have planned a sortie tonight," he murmured to her. "Perhaps I will bring you back the head of Brown Ben Plumm for a wedding gift."

"No heads," Dany insisted. "Once you brought me flowers."

"Let Hizdahr bring you flowers. He is not one to stoop and pluck a dandelion, true, but he has servants who will be pleased to do it for him. Do I have your leave to go?"

"Yes." She turned away, but Daario reached for her face and tugged it back around so he could kiss her. He left, and Ser Barristan turned back to the queen, irritated, but trying not to show it. There was no color on the queen's face; she was not ashamed of her affair with the captain.

"Lord Tyrion, I will be taking your sworn shield from you for a night."

"So I have heard, Your Grace. You are doubtless better company than I."

She smiled a little. "Six of my Unsullied with accompany you to your room and four will remain as nightly guards beside your door. Alyce is rather obsessive when it comes to your safety, and it is the only way she would agree to spending the night away from you." There was some humor in her violet eyes. "I will breakfast in my rooms in the morning, but then you may ask the guards to escort you to me, and you may accompany me throughout the day in order to continue my lessons."

"I would be pleased to do so, Your Grace. And let me take this time to thank you gratefully for your placement of my companion Penny. She is happy among the women you assigned to take care of her. She will make herself useful."

Daenerys looked pleased. "I'm glad it suits her. Is there anything else?"

"No, Your Grace."

"Good evening, then." She left the room, followed by Ser Barristan. Alyce bent to clasp Tyrion's hand gently before she made to follow her.

"Alyce," Tyrion murmured.

"I have to go," she whispered.

"I'll tell her tomorrow. Of the boy."

Alyce locked eyes with him, then nodded once and went into the hall to follow the queen. Tyrion stepped outside the council chamber to find his six Unsullied guards waiting. Daxros was among them, which he was glad to see. Daxros closed the chamber doors and then, forming around Tyrion, the Unsullied led him to his room for the night.

…

Queen Daenerys linked her arm in Alyce's companionably as they walked the halls and stairs to her suites near the top of the pyramid, Ser Barristan and a number of Unsullied guards with them.

"You look lovely," Dany complimented her.

"Thank you." Alyce changed the topic to one of more interest. "I didn't know about the pits."

Dany glanced at her. "I thought you did." She sighed, eye darkening again. "I am weary of fighting that battle. It isn't one I can win. The city demands there be celebratory battles in Daznak's Pit a few days after my wedding. Hizdahr claims they will all be free men, willingly choosing to fight, but I fear is in most part a lie. After a time, I will change things here, but it seems it cannot be all at once. When the Yunkish are finally gone from my gates, I will see to the pits. They will be closed for good ere I leave for Westeros."

Alyce nodded. _But where will we get the ships?_

"I like Lord Tyrion so far," Dany said. "He's like a maester. Cleverer than most, in fact. And he looks at you with stars in his eyes." She smiled, affectionately teasing.

Alyce made a face. "He does no such thing."

"There are moments."

They had reached Dany's rooms and the Unsullied let them in. Ser Barristan bowed and wished them goodnight. Missandei, Irri, and Jhiqui helped Dany out of her clothes and she pulled on a satin nightgown on over her head.

"Do you need to bathe?" she asked Alyce. Alyce shook her head, shimmying down to her underclothes as well. "I washed before the meeting." She placed her weaponry carefully on the table next to the side of the bed she normally slept on when she slept beside the little queen.

"If you'd like, you could have a seat at that table, you know."

"Ser Barristan and Tyrion could tell you everything I could," she replied easily, pulling a thin blanket around herself and sitting against the headboard in the bed. "I don't feel the need to sit at your table. Though I will if you command it."

Dany shook her head, but admitted, "I'd like more women on the council. My most powerful and loudest councilors are men."

"This world teaches men to lead and women to follow and tend. You will have a hard time of it trying to find women well enough equipped for the task—and confident enough to speak at a table full of men."

Dany stretched out across the bed perpendicular to Alyce, gazing at the high ceiling. "A poor state of the world. Westeros was conquered buy the strength of one man and _two_ women. That ratio of power should have been kept."

Missandei crawled into the bed with them and Dany held out an arm to her. The little girl curled up against her.

"Even then it was not as you paint it," Alyce replied with a sigh. "Aegon was the commander and became the king. They became queens only because they were married to him. If they had not been, they would only have been princesses. His was the true power."

"Only because culture and tradition asserted that men come before women. These can be changed."

"Trace it back to its beginning," murmured Alyce. "It comes from size and strength. Uncivilized men and women in the wild at the dawn of time. The male is larger and stronger, therefore he has power, and from there does this culture and tradition originate."

"If women were trained the same as the men, I don't think there would be the size and strength difference you're talking about."

"It would help to even things," Alyce agreed. "But how many women do you know that are taller than most men?"

Dany had no examples. "Pretty Merris," she offered after some thought.

"That woman's a _fright_."

"Are those Sand Snakes you talked about taller than men?"

"Maybe one or two of them, but for the most part, no." Alyce scratched her arm. "There was a woman I heard about in King's Landing before I left—a lord's daughter who was ugly and tall and trained to be a knight. I forget her given name, but she's the Lady of Evenfall, Lord Tarth's heir. When Lord Renly declared himself king at Highgarden and began to march on King's Landing, along the way he held a great melee of more than a hundred nights at Bitterbridge. The Lady of Tarth was the sole champion. For her prize, she asked to become one of Renly's Kingsguard, and he accepted her. I heard she can best any knight that comes against her and that she is loyal and good-hearted."

"I like the story of her. She is just the sort I want on my council. In Westeros, I should like her for my Queensguard."

Alyce chuckled. "When we land, I'll go see if I can fetch her for you."

"No, you would send a raven. I won't chance my best female guard trying to get another."

"Remember, love, that I am Lord _Tyrion's_ guard until I am released. I cannot be shield to two people."

"I'll have this Varys Spider brought to me and we'll have a discussion about that."

Alyce's eyes bulged and Dany laughed at her expression.

"No beheading my benefactor," Alyce muttered.

"Perhaps just a little threatening."

"Seven hells."

Irri and Jhiqui were blowing out the lamps and soon it was as dark inside as it was out. Dany moved under the bedclothes beside Alyce, Missandei shifting with her to curl up with her again. Dany placed her cheek against Alyce's shoulder and Alyce put her hand on her arm comfortingly.

"Dany," Alyce murmured.

"Mm?"

"Tyrion found out something about one of the people in the group we were traveling with from Illyrio's manse. He's going to talk to you about it tomorrow."

"You won't tell me now?"

"He knows more than me about it all. It'd likely be best if he explained. I just wanted to let you know about it."

"Mm." She sounded tired. "Very well—save it for tomorrow."

"Yes."

…


	34. V: A Queen's Fury

…

V.

A Queen's Fury

 **T** yrion Lannister broke his fast alone.

The balcony was in shadow, but the hazy, arid wind of Meereen was nonetheless hot and uncomfortable, despite the early hour. The balcony did not face the bay, but rather the city and its wall, over which he knew the Skahazadhan River sat. He heard no gulls or birds or natural or peaceful sounds. The sounds were of the city and even occasionally the trumpet of an elephant beyond the wall.

He had not been able to sleep well. Of the four books that had been placed on the shelves in his bedchamber mostly for decoration, only one of them had been in a tongue he could read, and he had read it twice. With parchment and ink, he had written out topics of study having to do with dragons and the training of them along with notes to prepare for the day, but he was already long finished with that task.

If the Unsullied had been surprised when he opened the door so early to call for breakfast, he could not tell. He was not adept at reading their minute expressions as of yet. The breakfast of cold tea, bread, fruit, and boiled eggs they brought him had looked appetizing, but now he was just picking at it as the clouds began to color a burnished orange at the approach of the sun.

 _I need a skin of wine. Or Alyce. Or both._

He had not touched wine since he had thought Alyce dead of his own weakness and folly.

Tyrion ate another egg and some fruit, and then called for hot water for the washroom basin and more books to be brought to him. The books he put on the bed and the hot water he soaked in, massaging his cock. He spent himself into the bathwater and felt less restless afterwards.

He toweled off and climbed onto the bed in only his undershorts, investigating the books the servants had brought. None looked particularly interesting—one was even just an expenditure ledger in Pentoshi grabbed by a servant that did not know any better—but he knew he would likely end up reading them all within the next few days, especially if he continued to sleep so poorly.

Pushing the books and scrolls aside, he lay on his back and gazed at the ceiling absently, thinking about how he would tell the queen about the young prince. His thoughts drifted then to Alyce and he pictured her curled naked with the blonde queen, tangled in satin sheets. Irrational jealousy licked at his stomach, hot and hollow. What had then spoken of last night? What did they do together? Why would she want to return to his side after sleeping with a Targaryen queen? Was Alyce the same with her as she was with him, or was she yet another person? Was she ever truly sincere with either of them?

Restless again, he dressed and asked for a seamstress to be sent to the room to fit him for clothes. A plump, owl-faced woman came, and though she spoke only Meereenese, which Tyrion could not speak, her gestures and grunts were enough to communicate to turn and lift one's arms and stick out one's leg. Tyrion was measured, the woman spoke briefly with Daxros, and then left.

Tyrion left the door open. "Daxros."

"Yes, lord?"

"What time do you think the queen will be awake?"

"She awake not now. Maybe…ah…" He made a face. "Time words…I do not know them."

"Not for a while." He sighed. "Daxros, I've been hearing people talk about a library here. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes. Take you?"

"Yes, if you would."

Daxros and the five other Unsullied guards accompanied Tyrion down a number of floors. Tyrion's legs were growing tired and stiff by the time their reached their destination. An intricate single wooden door stood between two stone columns and stained glass colored the wall above the door with images of demons, trees, fruit, and ships.

Daxros pushed open the heavy door for him and Tyrion stared.

He turned back to Daxros.

"Daxros, Queen Daenerys asked me to go see her when she was finished with her breakfast. When you think she might be finished, could you come get me?" _Because I will forget to ever leave if you do not._

Daxros nodded. "Yes. Take two Unsullied in."

Two of the guards followed Tyrion into the massive, impossibly high-ceilinged gallery. The gallery was ringed in ascending circles of higher balconies, each walled with shelves. Tyrion could not quite tell how many because the lamplight did not reach high enough. The main floor held rows of shelving housing only bound books, but he could see that higher up, the shelves began to be dominated by scrolls. The décor of the library was austere; heavy oak tables with lamps and divots for ink wells, along with uncomfortable-looking chairs tucked into them, were the only furniture.

Tyrion took a smaller lamp off a stand in the wall and roamed around the shelving, gazing at titles. The organizational system did not appear to be by language, which was unfortunate. He could see that the library was dutifully dusted by servants, but not with any particular care. In some difficult corners, the cursory dust sweepings actually made unsightly piles. There was no evidence that he could see of mice or insects that might damage the materials, however. Brick and marble were more effective at keeping out nature than wood and stone, it seemed.

It was a secluded and nostalgic place. Dim, cool, and old. It would have even been almost welcomingly peaceful if not for the footfalls of the stone-like soldiers shadowing his moves at a slight distance. _Irritating._ But he checked himself. _My life could be far worse._

He contented himself with the main floor for now, finding a newer tome written in the Common Tongue—the life's work and observations of a seafaring maester. It was a surprisingly engaging read, and Tyrion particularly enjoyed the man's sketches. He sat at one of the heavy tables, leaning the book against the edge of it, and sitting back in the uncomfortable chair.

This was where Daxos found him to tell him it ought to be time for him to meet with the queen.

Tyrion tucked his book under his arm and followed the Unsullied up two flights of the great marble staircase to a pleasant little gallery. A great deal of framed art decorated the walls as if they were all placed there for sale or showcase, and a handsome and long oak and marble-topped table centered the room. It was surrounded by a number of upholstered chairs—much more comfortable-looking seating than the chairs in the library. At the far end of the room near the angled ceiling, a section had been cut through the incredibly thick pyramid walls to the outside to allow a wide shaft of sunlight to slant down into the room onto the table and floor, and therefore few lamps were necessary to light it.

Queen Daenerys was sitting at the table, papers, scrolls, and drawings in front of her and four people gathered around her, conversing. Her two imposing Dothraki guardsmen stood against the wall directly behind her, eyes sharp and belted arakhs even sharper. Her tiny Naathi scribe and Alyce were seated across from her, ignoring the goings on for the most part and playing a little game with buttons on a foldable leather board while they picked at their breakfasts.

Alyce was in the same low-cut beige dress she had been in yesterday, with slim sandals on her rather sizeable feet. Her shortsword and her dirk rested down beside her chair, while the rest of her knives sat on her hip to right and left. Her ocean-blue eyes and short raven hair made a strikingly beautiful contrast in the angled morning light she was bathed in. In that slanting light, he could see slightly through the top of her thin dress. She wore no brassiere, and the contours of her softened nipples stirred him beneath his laces. He wanted to put his mouth around them.

She looked up and right into his eyes and Tyrion felt his legs grow unsteady as he walked to her. It was as if he were seeing through a spyglass; she was all he could take in. His senses were full of her to the exclusion of everything else, even the queen sitting in the room with them.

He stopped beside her and fought for mastery of himself. The Naathi child was looking back and forth between them with eyes of gold. Tyrion gave Alyce a quick smile, reached beside her for the unripe peach sitting on her plate, and greeted "Good morrow" before bringing it to his mouth and crunching into it.

He turned to the queen who had stopped conversing with the people gathered around her to watch him. Tyrion gave her a handsome low bow, swallowing his bite. "Good morrow, Your Grace. I hope you slept well and that your Kissing Snake did not keep you awake too late with her chatter." He grinned.

Queen Daenerys Targaryen's eyes flicked to Alyce and then back to Tyrion in amusement. She waved a hand lazily, and the people around her gathered their papers from the table and left the room.

She drawled, "I imagine she and I did more sleeping than the two of _you_ would have gotten around to doing."

Tyrion smirked at her cheek. He was in a room with two very witty women and it delighted him. He took a seat beside the little scribe and gave her his attention. "We have not formally met, sweet. Will you tell me your name?"

"This one is called Missandei, my lord," she replied in a clear young voice. Her intonation of the Common Tongue was perfect and spoke of a depth of education he had not expected.

"Best be careful with this one, darling," Alyce told her with a tease in her eyes, referring to Tyrion. "He's even more charming than he looks."

Missandei glanced at Tyrion quickly to see if he would be offended, and when he smirked, she allowed herself a little giggle.

Alyce grew more serious. "Any difficulties last night or this morning?" she asked him. "Was everything alright?"

"Perfectly fine," he shrugged. "I called for a seamstress to fit me this morning and read the rest of the time. I had Daxros take me to the library you mentioned—it's excellent."

She nodded. "Good. No one bothered you?"

"Why should they? I've made myself no enemies—yet."

"The longer you keep it that way the easier my job is."

"Nonsense—I insist on you earning your title." He flashed her a grin. "In fact, where is that Belwas fellow? A few jabs at his missing manhood and there would be no need for the fighting pits—you and he would be entertainment enough."

Dany was giving him a dry, disapproving expression, but there was amusement in her violet eyes. Alyce looked at Missandei and jabbed her finger toward Tyrion. "You see, darling? You see how much trouble he is?"

Missandei covered her mouth with her tiny hands trying unsuccessfully to stifle her giggles. Tyrion continued munching his peach, trying not to look too pleased with himself. The scribe and the queen were still girls yet, for all their cleverness, and he and Alyce were the adult figures in the room because they were at least five years older. It made him feel strange and protective, as if the two younger girls were his children.

"Have you eaten, Lord Tyrion?" Daenerys asked him. "I can have another tray brought."

"I ate early. If I feel hungry again, I can just eat all Alyce's breakfast. I'm sure she won't mind."

In response Alyce very smoothly slid her strapped dagger from her wrist and twirled it in her fingers over her plate. "Not at all," she replied pleasantly.

Daenerys smirked.

Tyrion produced the parchment he had tucked into the book he had been reading. He unfolded it and laid it in front of him, facing the queen. "This morning I gave thought to the topics we could cover in the next few days and laid out a logical organization to your education."

Daenerys leaned forward, gazing at his work. Her eyebrows rose. "You put some thought into this."

"Being the only known keeper of dragons in the world, Your Grace, you ought to become a scholar of them, and the sooner the better. Controlling them takes practice, trust, knowledge, and bonding."

Her face had fallen. "I wish you had been with me since their hatching. I worry I will never have the control of them my ancestors did."

Tyrion was shaking his head. "The cleverest of dragons are capable of reasoning, Your Grace, and as with people, bonds can be formed even later in life. Balerion the Black had riders after King Aegon—after he was more than a hundred years old—and each were obliged to learn one another first. It takes some time for young dragons to develop. Perhaps the time nears when a bond might be built with Viserion and Rhaegal."

"Not Drogon?"

"Drogon is in the wild, Your Grace? Do I have the right of that?"

"You do."

"He is the happiest of your dragons, then. He perhaps might be the _most_ willing to work with you—if he has not become too wild."

She was looking away. "He hasn't returned…in a while."

"He is growing stronger alone, and I doubt he will not forget his mother. Dragons are drawn to Targaryens. He will return to you, and when he does, he will be strong and confident. Being in the wild—this is the best thing for him."

Daenerys looked grateful for his words. "That's good to hear. I worry for him."

"Alyce tells me Viserion and Rhaegal are around fifteen or so feet in wingspan—and this is caged. Dragons' growth is stunted when caged—that has been proven by the experiences of your ancestors. Drogon will likely be more than _twice_ that size when you see him next—likely even more."

This surprised Daenerys—her eyebrows had shot toward her hairline.

Tyrion continued, "He will soon be at a size where little is a threat to him, if he is not already at that size."

Anxiety had quickly followed surprise in Dany's expression. "Being caged…it's hurting Viserion and Rhaegal, you say. I would let them loose as well, but I'm afraid they will attack my people. And be targets."

He was nodding. "They would be, Your Grace. The two need special handling. I am not exactly sure what sort. I will think on it."

"Thank you." She glanced down at his list. "So where shall we begin?"

"Actually, Your Grace, there is a conversation we need to have before we speak of dragons."

"Ah, yes." She glanced briefly at Alyce. "Alyce mentioned you had something to tell me. Something about one of the passengers on your boat coming to me from Magister Illyrio."

"Yes. And while I will not relish the old man scowling at me from over your shoulder while I explain, this news is likely something Ser Barristan would like to hear as well."

Daenerys was nodding. "Missandei, will you fetch Ser Barristan?"

"Yes, Your Grace." The little girl hopped out of her seat and skittered out of the room.

"Why was this not something you told me right away, Lord Tyrion?" Daenerys asked coolly, her eyes evaluating him.

"This is only our second real conversation, Your Grace, so I would argue I _am_ telling you right away. And if I delayed, it was because I was deliberating two things: how to explain, and whether or not it was my secret to tell. To tell you the truth, it perhaps is _not_ my secret to give to you. But I serve you now, and I should like to do so openly, without complication. That involves sharing with you all that I know."

Daenerys seemed satisfied with that answer, but her eyes were still wary.

Ser Barristan Selmy entered, followed by Missandei, and closed the door behind him. He glanced at the Dothraki guardsmen, Daenerys' only guards, and his mouth cut into a line. Tyrion could almost hear his thoughts: _She should have Unsullied here with her as well. She should not be all-but alone with these two._

"Your Grace," Barristan greeted.

"Please be seated, ser," Dany said, waving him to a chair beside her. "Lord Tyrion has information he wishes to share and asked you be here as well to hear it."

Selmy eyed Tyrion with mistrust, and Daenerys saw it and laughed suddenly, likely remembering Tyrion's mention of 'the old man scowling at me.' She turned to Tyrion and became serious again.

"Now. Tell me your news."

Tyrion folded his hands together. "Alyce and I met at Illyrio's manse. I had been sent there across the Narrow a bit earlier before I could be executed for King Joffrey's murder. Lord Varys sent her off shortly after, and Illyrio accompanied us both to Ghoyan Drohe where we met with the rest of the party who planned to travel with us to Meereen to you. There were many passengers—among which were a septa who Alyce and I suspect was not actually a septa; a Rhoynish couple; a half-maester; a middle-aged man, who claimed he was not a knight or a lord, but was obviously both, who dyed his bright red hair and beard blue; and his handsome son of seventeen years of age with violet eyes and dyed blue hair to match his father's. The roots of his hair were silver blonde."

Daenerys sat back in her chair. "My family has sired bastards for three hundred years all over the Seven Kingdoms. I understand what your description alludes to, but it does not impress me."

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan said softly. "The lord he describes…"

"Yes, I thought you might recognize him from the description, ser," Tyrion said. "I had never seen the exiled lord myself, but I was familiar with his description, and I made my assumptions."

"Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost."

Daenerys' faced blanked. "Lord Connington?"

"You brother Rhaegar's closest friend," Tyrion agreed. "Briefly Hand of the King under your father during the Rebellion until he lost the Battle of the Bells."

"Viserys said he drank himself to death somewhere here in Essos after his exile," she stated.

"So I also heard. But I am here to tell you now: the man is alive. And protecting with his life a Targaryen youth being sent to you in secret from those who wish to help you."

"You have a guess to his identity, Lord Tyrion—I can see it in your face," Dany said levelly.

"It wasn't spoken of on the ship. Alyce didn't know. I had assumptions, so I played the fool with the half-maester on the boat—Connington's seemingly closest confidant. I lost to him at _cyvasse_ repeatedly until he grew arrogant enough to wager me a secret. Then I bested him and demanded the truth of him. He confirmed it for me. Those guarding and educating him on the boat believed him to be Aegon the Sixth Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar and Elia Martell of Dorne, smuggled out of the Red Keep through the machinations of Lord Varys, and switched with a Flea Bottom bastard babe before the sacking of King's Landing."

There was silence at the table.

Tyrion leaned forward. "I cannot vouch for the truth of this. Lord Connington and those in protection of the boy appear to believe it, and the boy has noble Targaryen features, but as you said, the same could be said of many young men in Westeros. I am only telling you what I was told. It could well be a lie."

"A mummer's dragon, perhaps," Dany murmured, eyes far away.

Ser Barristan glanced at her. "The age is right, Your Grace. And Connington…there was no more loyal a lord to his prince than that man was to your brother. He loved him, I believe."

"He was _in_ love with him," Alyce murmured. Barristan looked sharply at her, affronted.

"There is no way for you to know such a thing."

"I watched him speak of Rhaegar." She shrugged. "It seemed obvious to me, but I could be mistaken."

"If Jon Connington believes the boy is Rhaegar's son…" Ser Barristan trailed off, looking again at the queen. "Connington is a man I would trust to give the truth of things."

"So many secrets," Daenerys sighed. "I do not doubt this lord believes it. I believe he would _want_ to believe it. And yet how can we know the truth?" She eyed Alyce. "Your Lord Varys could tell us, I suppose, but who could be sure of the truth from him? And does the truth even matter if it cannot be proven one way or another? If I decide he is my nephew, that is what he becomes. And if I decide he is not, he will never be."

Tyrion spoke up. "Your Grace, they carried chests and proofs I was never allowed to look through. It's possible there is truth to be found in letters or other such things."

"The siege destroyed my chances for deciding it for myself," Dany muttered, irritated. "Alyce explained when she first told her story how the group saw no way to get through the sellsword lines to me and turned toward Westeros instead."

"Perhaps they'll clear the way for you there," suggested Alyce.

"Perhaps they'll raise for Aegon there," Tyrion suggested in a flatter voice. "Being of the male line, if proven, the boy has a stronger claim."

Dany's eyes flashed dangerously at him, but her face remained cool and calm.

Ser Barristan looked vexed. "If he and Connington had any sense, they would make common cause with the queen, not raise a competing claim."

"It's likely they want to marry the two of us." She stood then, suddenly dark and dangerous as a summer storm. "Viserys' _wife_. A khal's _wife_. Meereen's _wife_. Aegon's _wife_. To rule, it must be as brood sow."

Her compact, quiet fury was controlled and nothing like her father's famous rages, but Tyrion felt a true chill.

She continued, "How _inconvenient_ for the great conniver Illyrio Mopatis that I have a cunt. We might be of an age, but while this princely _pup_ was dying his _hair_ , I have commanded a _khalasar_ of forty thousand, been worshiped by the greatest warlord the Dothraki had ever seen, hatched three dragons from deadened stone with fire and bloodmagic, earned the loyalty of eight thousand of the most disciplined soldiers in the world, and sacked and conquered cities. Yet they imagine I will rush to my brother's supposed son and lend him my support because what else would a _woman_ do?"

Tyrion felt a great welling of respect for her. Even furious, she controlled herself, but her words were pointed and sharp as razors. She had experienced and accomplished far more than most men do in an entire lifetime, and she was only sixteen. She had every right to be angry at the implication of Aegon raising in Westeros, and Tyrion knew that if he had known her then as he knew her now, he would not have encouraged Aegon to do as he had.

"What else would a woman do?" Alyce murmured quietly. "You will show them _exactly_ what that is. And when you and he meet, if he does not piss his breeches and pledge his service to _you_ , the only deserving ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, he would be a great fool."

Daenerys was watching Alyce with eyes hard as cut gems. She nodded once and looked away. "Is there anything else, then, Lord Tyrion? Anything else I should know? Was the septa really the great Lyanna Stark in disguise? Was the half-maester Brynden Rivers?"

Tyrion ignored her irony. "That is everything, Your Grace. The secrets of the houses of the Seven Kingdoms I am privy to are yours as well and will come out as needed. You've already been told of my niece and nephew's illegitimacy, and Alyce tells me she has admitted her lineage to you, a secret she even kept from me."

"How do you know of it, then?"

"She has the look of his bastards. I met one and saw others." Tyrion glanced at Alyce who was staring down at the table. "All my knowledge is yours for the asking."

"And I will have need of it. But for now my need is your knowledge of dragons. Let us walk the halls together until I must see to other duties."

Alyce followed behind the two with Ser Barristan as Tyrion and the queen walked two floors of the pyramid and Tyrion lectured her. Today he occasionally asked her questions as well to make sure of her comprehension of yesterday's information. In front of them walked Aggo and Rakarro, Dany's bloodriders, and two Unsullied trailed Alyce and Ser Barristan as well. When Tyrion's legs began to bother him, they retired to the same sitting room off of Daenerys' bedroom Alyce used to sleep in. The makeshift bed and destroyed pillows had been removed.

Alyce grew restless sitting and amused herself by doing exercises. She did so to the side of Tyrion so that she would be as little of a distraction as possible. As the afternoon waned, Ser Barristan eventually came up to her and gestured his head subtly toward the door. The two of them left Tyrion and the queen to their talk of dragons of which they had very little part.

"Are you hungry?" she asked the knight.

"I could eat. Shall we visit the kitchens?" he offered.

She grinned, and they went down to the kitchens and nicked some fresh, steaming bread with rosemary seasoning in it. She had to use a towel to hold the loaf lest it scald her fingers. Bread still hot from the woodstove was one of Alyce's favorite foods. She ripped the crackling loaf in half and Barristan ate with her as they walked the perimeter of the pyramid and left crumbs everywhere.

"One of your true weaknesses, this," Ser Barristan teased her in a serious tone, holding up the loaf to implicate it.

"I know," she groaned. "I'd sell my soul for a slice with butter…steam still curling off it…" She bit off a piece with a groan. "It's a deep personal failing."

Ser Barristan allowed himself a smile at her antics.

"You met this boy, this so-called Prince Aegon," he said. "Do you think he is legitimate?"

"I really don't know," she answered honestly. "All I can tell you is that he is a bright and chivalrous lad. He'd been raised well by whoever raised him. A trifle overconfident, but he could also be humble when the situation called for it. He'd been educated like a proper lord's son—languages, maths, history, weaponry, the Seven, heraldry, and such. He loved Griff—er, Lord Connington. The man went by 'Griff' on the boat. The boy looked up to him. The lad was easy to like, though inexperienced when it comes to people who might not wish him well. Too trusting, in my opinion.

"I grew fond of Connington," she added. "He was very serious and gruff and suspicious, but had an honor and frankness to him that I liked."

"Jon was a good man, last I knew of him," Barristan agreed.

"Tyrion saved Aegon from the stone men, you know. You remember my story when I first arrived of the stone men jumping down into the boat? The boy they almost got their hands around was him, but Tyrion protected him and got him out of the way, only to be in the brute's way himself. He must have known who he was at that point." She frowned.

"Yes, I remember." Barristan was thoughtful. "Would that they had all arrived. Doubtless they had more news for the queen that they never shared with the two of you, and meeting the so-called prince that way would have been best."

Alyce nodded. After they had walked the rounds and were tired, they took a proper meal with Grey Worm and the other Unsullied captains, and Grey Worm told Ser Barristan updates on the goings on in the city. She had not always liked being around the Unsullied, but that was not the case anymore. They had eased around her and she could feel their trust now.

Alyce could go where she liked, and helping Ser Barristan with his duties was more interesting to her than listening to Tyrion lecture, fond as she was of the man. They checked stockpiles, met with heads of the servant crews, and oversaw guarding schedules.

The planning of guards and contingency plans for both the wedding and the day of battles in Daznak's Pit were time consuming and detailed. Ser Barristan and three Unsullied captains poured over maps of the Temple and the Pit in a conference room in the lower levels of the palace where the soldiers slept. Alyce also put in input when she had something to say.

Finally the detailing was roughly mapped out, and they headed up to their usually gallery for a sparring lesson.

…


	35. VI: Trembling

…

Author's Note:

Please note that this story's rating is now **M** (Mature) for explicit sexual content.

Thank you & enjoy

…

VI.

Trembling

 **I** n the early evening, Queen Daenerys was obliged to end her lesson with Tyrion for the day and see to other matters. Tyrion Lannister was left yet again with six Unsullied guards but alone.

The afternoon had seemingly flown by to him, as engaging his subject and student had been, but now the ache to hold Alyce took over him again.

 _Where is she? For a guard, she doesn't do much guarding._

"Daxros."

"Yes, my lord."

"Take me to Alyce Waters, your _imoa kijakthi_."

"Yes, my lord."

As they approached a wide archway leading into an open, terraced gallery, Tyrion could hear her and Ser Barristan before he saw them. The song of steel on steel carried down the entire hall.

"Cross!" the old knight called as Tyrion entered the arched space.

Alyce spun into a position that invited a thrust to her unprotected side, and when Barristan thrust into the opportunity, she pivoted expertly, moved her weapon into a short guard, and shouted, "Short guard and thrust!" Her blade's tip, held into a more accurate position with her glove below the blade, came within a few inches of Selmy's neck.

"Good," he grunted, pleased. "Lead with your left now."

Tyrion stood against one of the great marble pillars in the gallery and watched. He did not often take his eyes from Alyce.

She looked exotically fearsome in plate and mail, her movements precise and deadly, her features entirely absorbed and focused. He could see very little of her actual body, but there was grace in her movements and beauty in her passion. The sweat on her face was fierce, the satisfied grins she flashed occasionally were heart-stopping.

 _Not even the Warrior himself could be worthy of such a woman. I certainly will never be._

Barristan Selmy forced her to repeat maneuvers, blocks, pivots, knocks, and thrusts until even Tyrion felt it was overkill. Selmy would also sometimes layer on the maneuvers so they became a complex series of steps.

Tyrion had never seen Alyce use a longsword before. Her shortsword and favored dirk were lying discarded for the nonce on the tile. She seemed freer with the longsword somehow. With her two favored weapons, she kept herself coiled to spring like a Dornish cobra, her moves swift and deadly, but cautious rather than grand or sweeping. Her style was forced to change when it was a longsword she wielded to fight. In her hands, the weapon swung and flew like a silver wing.

Within a quarter of an hour, to his surprise, Meereenese boys began to trickle in from elsewhere in the pyramid—their ages ranging from beardless youths to tall young men. They carried their own mail, leather, plate, and weaponry and began to help each other don it as they watched Selmy with Alyce, unsurprised by their fierce bout. Many of them gave Tyrion the long, rude, wide-eyed stares young boys were wont to give when seeing their first dwarf.

"That will end it for today," Selmy told Alyce when most of the boys had their armor on. She bowed to him gracefully, sweat streaking the sides of her face, and then handed him the longsword hilt-first.

"Thank you, ser. An honor, as it is always." She began loosening her plate, and one of the young men leapt forward to help her with it. She rewarded him a grateful smile that made him red from neck to hairline. Another brought her her shortsword and dirk. Servants from the door came in with a wheeled cart and took Alyce's mail away for scouring. When her armor was off, Tyrion saw she was wearing the airy pants again and a plain, white sleeveless tunic over an undershirt. Her bare arms glistened in the light.

She asked after a few of the younger boys she seemed fond of, and one of them showed her a dagger of his. She made noises of appreciation and adjusted the grip of his thumb on the handle. He asked her something in Meereenese, but she shook her head apologetically, gesturing toward the door, and replied something. He nodded and asked another question, to which he seemed to get the answer he wanted. He tucked the dagger away as Alyce ruffled his hair, and then finally she focused on Tyrion.

Her eyes held him captive the entire time she walked to him. She had a way of focusing her gaze and not wavering as she moved or walked that was like the casting of a spell, or the stalking of a tiger. He stood, his heat beating harder than it had been.

When she reached where he was, she gestured toward the door, and he walked with her out of the gallery. He was glad to be alone with her and without his usual absurd retinue of guards. Alyce was absolutely drenched in sweat, and smelled sharp and strong. The urge to suck on her skin hit him—harder this time—like the blow of a hammer. She would taste unbelievably salty. His fingers and groin tightened.

"I need a bath and I thought perhaps you would like to watch me take one," she said matter-of-factly. Tyrion's heart felt like it jumped sideways right out of his ribs.

"You were right."

She smirked and looked down at him. "There's a washroom on the same floor as our rooms that I like. It has pipes that jut from the wall and spray like a waterfall. Some old dead Meereenese master's luxury. How did the rest of your lesson go?"

"It went well. I was afraid she would grow bored—like you obviously did—but she's more interested in the topic, apparently."

Alyce smiled apologetically. "I don't like sitting all day."

"When you look so good standing, why would you?"

That made her laugh.

"So you're training under Ser Barristan Selmy now," he observed.

"And Lord Connington before that."

"Impressive."

"I don't want to lose you to some bloody knight again." Her face had darkened.

"You only… What happened that night was because of the confined space," he said in a low voice. "Believe me…I spent a great deal of time thinking about it. What parts I could remember."

"Yes, but it won't happen again. Connington and I focused on confined spaces in the weeks were traveled to Meereen after Selhorys."

"Well. You looked incredible in there with Selmy. Like Queen Nymeria."

"Thank you." They arrived at their room and she unlocked it for him. Inside, she pulled a soft robe from the wardrobe. He locked the door behind them as they left and followed her down the hall.

The washroom she led him into was empty but spacious he saw when they had lit enough lamps to light it. The room had two large marble basins, oak benches against the walls, a shelf of rolled towels, and an oddly tilted floor with a grate drain at the lowest point near the far wall. From the top of that wall jutted more than ten small copper pipes.

He took a seat on the bench closest to the pipes as Alyce began to shed her soaked clothes.

Even just her pulling her tunic up over her head was enough to make him hard, but she continued, unstrapping her special daggers, pulling off the airy half-pants, slipping off her sandals, and then pulling off her chemise.

Standing in only her brassiere and undershorts, she looked like a goddess. Tyrion knew he had seen her naked before, yet somehow he did not remember her looking like this. With her hair cut short and her muscle definition catching the lamplight, she almost looked like a heavenly androgyne from the tales of the _Seven-Pointed Star_. But her face was delicate and undeniably feminine, and her breasts… He watched as the brassiere was finally unlaced.

Her eyes moved from the work of her fingers to fix on his as she gently tugged the brassiere from around her and then wiggled out of her undershorts. Tyrion's pulse was pounding fast, his cock straining at his pants with every beat of his heart, but though he desperately wanted to stroke himself, he kept his hands on the cool oak of the bench and only watched her.

She broke their gaze to walk to a lever in the floor and crank it. She cranked it all the way around perhaps seven or eight times; by the fourth, water was dripping from the pipes, and by the sixth, it was running strongly, gushing out onto the floor at an angle. Alyce took up a small brick of soap, stepped her lower body under the pour, and shivered delightedly at the chill. Then she stepped under the water fully.

Tyrion had never in his life seen anything like her standing there under that water.

She was only a naked woman bathe under a waterfall, and he had seen erotic things…women pleasuring one another, women rubbing oil all over their bodies, women dancing as if they were making love to the air…

…but Alyce had crossed desert and danger and bled to find him again.

She had saved his life.

She had held and kissed him without obligation. She was clever and anarchic and her wit bit like claws.

And so somehow, painfully, dizzyingly, her scrubbing soap against her skin and into her hair beneath that running water was the most erotic thing he had ever seen.

His body was on fire, but he sat as still as possible. He would not be for her that lecherous imp King's Landing had spread tales of. He was a lord's son.

Tyrion went to fetch her a towel.

Alyce had to crank the lever a few more times so she could rinse off, and then she walked to him, wringing out her hair. He stood and handed her the towel wordlessly, watching her dry herself.

"I smell a bit better now," she remarked with a teasing smile, tossing the towel onto the tile with her soiled clothes.

"I imagine you do," he replied mildly. She picked up her small, sheathed daggers and strapped them back into their places, then took up her robe from the first bench. She slipped into the soft fabric, belting it around her waist.

"Shall we?"

He gestured formally to the door and she smiled and opened the door for them. To a servant coming out of another room with a basket of laundry, Alyce told her in Meereenese about the clothes in the washroom, and the girl nodded in understanding. While she had been speaking with her, Tyrion had unlocked their door, and she followed him into their dark room.

They lit the lamps together. Electricity hummed between the two of them.

"Are you hungry?" he asked as they went. "It's getting close to time for supper."

She gave him an odd, rather surprised look. "Ser Barristan and I ate before the bout."

He nodded and stood gazing at her, his hands in the pockets of his ill-fitting pants. "Alyce, you looked far too incredible in that room for me not to lavish attention on you for an obscene amount of time."

"Good," she replied easily. "Come here." She went to their bed and he followed, almost trembling with desire that he was determined to control. He climbed up beside her and touched her chin. She watched his eyes as he lifted both his hands to her face and traced the line of her jaw, her brows, and passed his fingertips across her lips. She closed her eyes as he touched her brow and her lips curved in a small smile as his fingers moved over them.

She brushed some of his hair back with her hand, running that hand down through his hair to his neck to pull him closer. Tyrion gently pushed off one shoulder of her robe and ran his hand up over her smooth shoulder and across part of her collarbone as he kissed the skin beside her ear and kissed his way agonizingly slowly down from below her ear to her shoulder.

" _Gods_ ," he whispered, having a difficult time thinking clearly, he was so overwhelmed at having her beside him, warm, hard, soft, _Alyce_ … "Speaking of them," he murmured, "I wonder if they knew…when they made you…what they were getting this poor fool into."

 _You…or me?_ Alyce wondered, heat gathering beneath every inch of her skin. Between her thighs, she ached to have him. To take ownership.

Tyrion kissed up her jaw again, his mouth so warm on her skin, and finally took her lips with his like the pouring of wine.

Alyce made a soft noise from the back of her throat into his mouth and he groaned in response. While he kissed her, deeply, using his tongue as expertly as she did a dirk, his hands ran down her arms, pushing the robe further down and exposing her breasts and waist.

His hands ran across her collarbone in a way that made her hips shift and her toes curl, and his hand slid down around across her hard stomach, but avoided her breasts. She ached for him to touch and massage and suck them, and his avoidance made that ache worse.

He lifted his hands from her arms to cup her face with them and stroke gentle strokes over and beneath her ears and down the underside of her jaw while he kissed her deeply. Something about that made Alyce feel boneless; she swayed slightly while he held her face, and the muscles of her entrance clenched with want.

He knew how to touch, this man. That was sure and certain.

Her fingers flexed against his shirted back and bare neck, raking him gently with her nails. He was going so slowly—damn him, _bless_ him—and she hadn't expected the delicious luxury of it.

Quite suddenly his feverishly warm mouth was on one of her nipples, and Alyce fell backwards onto her back on the bed with a sharp, high-pitched moan. Tyrion moved with her, his mouth lavishing exactly what she had been aching for. His avoidance had heightened her skin's sensitivity, and she fisted his hair and the bedclothes in her hands as heat and electric, tingling pleasure burned through her veins from his touch like fire through oil.

He massaged and touched and groaned as if she were delicious; he feathered kisses and licked and tweaked with his fingertips. Moving in seemingly lazy circles, one of his hands moved down over her stomach to her thighs. He skimmed lightly over her mound as she sucked in her breath, and then he trailed little circles over her inner thighs.

"Tyrion." She breathed his name, eyes closed, and he pressed his forehead to her chest, closing his own eyes. His name in her voice like that—exhaled with heat and desire—it staggered him for a moment, and a wave of some unidentifiable emotion crashed against his ribs. When it had ebbed slightly, he kissed her chest and then began pressing harder with his hand against her soft inner thighs.

Her noises quieted when his firm touch began to brush the hair around her entrance, and this concerned him somewhat. Women usually made _more_ noise when his hands were there than less. But the expressions of pleasure on her face were still there, and he could plainly feel her wetness—that could not be a lie, and in fact, it almost shocked him. Many of his whores had never grown wet for him, sometimes no matter how much attention and skill he gave to their pleasure.

She made an odd noise in her throat and her fingers fisted in his hair almost painfully. He kissed his way down and up her stomach, playing at the edges of the hair between her thighs with his hands. He took up one of her wrists and kissed the inside of it deeply, as if it were her entrance. His tongue flicked and loved. She went quiet again, but for sharp breathing and an occasional whimper that sent his hard cock throbbing against his laces. Her nails raked his back and dug in.

When he felt the moment was right, he lowered to take a nipple into his mouth again as his right hand gripped her hard between her legs, the flat of his middle fingers firm against her wet entrance. Her back arched like an animal's, throwing her head back and her hips away from his touch and then back—hard—into his hand.

An undulating moan escaped her, then trailed off into another whimper that made him lightheaded with want of her. He barely had to move his hand; she thrust against the pressure and flicks of his middle finger in the rhythm she wanted. Tyrion leaned back over her and nuzzled her other breast with his mouth. Her inhales and exhales grew sharper.

With his outer fingers down over and almost in her entrance, he flicked with his curled middle finger where he knew the repetitive motion was going to take her and break her in two. In a deep, psychological way, he wanted to see her reach her release and feel her pulse with it against his fingers. He wanted so badly to be able to give her pleasure. He needed to, as if to prove something to himself or to her or to the world itself.

"No more flicking," she breathed. "Just hold your hand there against— _yes_ —"

Tyrion pressed his hand against her as she ground herself forward and back across the friction of his fingers. Her nails bit his lower back. She was so warm and slick and every time the nub above her entrance slid across his palm, her inner thighs trembled.

He was patient. He kept that pressure there for her while she moved against his hand quietly, little whimpers her only sounds. He kissed her stomach and ribs and breasts. Finally, he could hear the building of her release in the change of her breathing. His heart trembled as her cut inhales built and then broke into a little groan, her mouth open wide. He felt a gush of wet against his fingers and the incredible rhythmic contractions of her release rolling over his hand. Her mouth had opened wider, her breaths little sighs. Her muscles around him melted like wax, collapsing into relaxation.

Tyrion struggled for a moment in unlacing his pants and then peeling them off, along with his undershorts. His cock was dark and throbbing terribly. He put his hand around it, sliding the wetness on his hand over himself, and that sensation pulled a tremulous groan out of his throat. Her arms drifted up and around his neck as he moved up to kiss her. The kiss was deep and languid and so, so warm. He groaned into her mouth. She started nodding as he moved the tip of his cock around the hot, velvet softness of her. The head of his cock was so sensitive that it made him lightheaded. He groaned more deeply.

Her eyes opened at his groan and she smiled, eyes bright and warm. She hitched up her hips welcomingly and Tyrion pushed inside her with a cry of pleasure that made tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He kissed her breasts and neck as he thrust in and out of her. She gave light moans that made the fire in his veins flare higher.

"You're so warm, love," he groaned. "You're so… Ah, love…" He gazed into her skyblue eyes.

She ran her hands through his hair and moved her legs up higher around his hips to give him more leverage and to give herself better ability to meet him with her body. " _Alyce_ …" Tyrion lost himself completely then. Pleasure rushed toward him dizzyingly. A final thrust and then he wrenched himself out of her and let himself spill over her belly and off to the side onto the bed. His mind was spinning in blissful circles.

He collapsed upon her and she wrapped her arms around him and turned them both so they were on their sides on the bed. He was tucked tight against her, sticky, and deeply sated, his face pressed against her neck. He lay relaxed and luxuriated in the exquisite bliss of release. Of having her. Claiming her. His mind was a delicious blank.

She rubbed his back slowly and nuzzled her mouth into his hair. Her hand moved up from his back to his head and she tucked a bit of his curly hair behind his ear, allowing her fingers to trail tenderly from his forehead down to his jaw. She kissed his forehead, but didn't speak right away, and he loved her for that.

Coming back to himself a little bit more, he stirred and kissed the skin closest to his lips—her neck and jaw and the tops of her breasts. His kissed her slowly, letting his lips press long, his face press against her skin, inhaling the scent of her. One of her hands was running down and up his side gently.

"I didn't think you'd be able to give me that," she murmured frankly.

He grimaced slightly, his face still tucked against her neck. He too had been anxious that it would be awkward between them. The angles were different with him than with other men, he could not kiss a woman's mouth easily while he made love, and his arms were not long enough for all the holding and grasping and touching most were used to. Whores muscled through the oddness and embarrassment, but he knew it often killed any chance of their arousal. Quite often it killed any chance for him as well. Hearing that Alyce had doubted he would be able to give her sexual pleasure was unsurprising, but hurt his pride nonetheless.

"I have attempted throughout my life to learn a great deal about giving women pleasure," he said with feigned nonchalance, "so my hands and tongue and care might make up for the ways in which I lack."

Her fingers found his chin and she tilted his head up so she could kiss him. The kiss was deep and tender and began to wash away his discomfort. She squeezed his softened cock very gently.

"You aren't _small_."

"Not particularly large, either, but the difficulties lie with _overall_ stature."

"The right leverage _is_ a bit tricky," she agreed. He glanced at her eyes, looking for mockery, but found only consideration of practical concerns. He nodded.

Alyce pulled them up across the bed so that they were on pillows and tugged the thin blanket lying across the end of the bed up over them. She snuggled in close, her arms wrapped around him, and closed her eyes.

Tyrion contended himself with lying in her arms and listening to her breathe for a minute or two, then he shifted away and up slightly in order to gaze at her face. She opened her eyes to look at him briefly, then, like a cat, closed them again. He traced her face with his fingers, gazing at her delicate, highborn features. There were only just one or two freckles on her face from the sun. He leaned in to kiss them both before kissing her lips. She made a pleasant sound in her throat and returned the kiss lazily, her tongue brushing his own slowly. She tasted sweeter than wine.

Tyrion angled his head so that he could kiss her while her head rested on the pillow and they kissed until they tasted the same.

"Tell me a story or a secret or a memory," she murmured some time later. "I want to listen to your voice and know your life."

A terrible tenderness cut through him so deeply it hurt. _This woman has taken my heart for hers in totality. She holds my life in balance, and leaves me so vulnerable, it is as if I have no skin._ He knew that he loved her, and had already loved her long before now.

He cleared his throat. "When I was a child, I used to set small fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock," he told her. "And I would pretend it was dragonflame and that I was one of the princes of old Valyria. I would steal one of my brother's dozens of play swords and romp around alone for hours, winning battles and fighting from dragonback until the fire burned out or some servant caught me."

She was smiling. "Mm. Tell me more about the young Lord Tyrion."

"Well his brother and sister never played with him, and so he was often lonely. He played with Ser Benedict Broom's sons the most, but even they would rather play with someone else." He realized too late he sounded bitter and changed the mood back to playful. "But he had every nice thing a boy could ask for. He played in the Golden Gallery where the walls were gilded, and rode on the harbor ships and learned from the best private tutors."

"I've never been to the Rock," she told him. "What is it like?"

Tyrion described for her the colossal stone half-mountain beside the Sunset Sea two leagues long from west to east and three times the height of the Wall carved out over thousands of years. He told her of its gates, walls, watchtowers, tunnels, dungeons, balconies, barracks, storerooms, greathalls, stables, endless stairways, courtyards, gardens, and the hundreds of mineshafts in its depths. The base contained sea-carved caverns that caused the bowels of the Rock to rumble like thunder inside, and it held yet untouched gold veins. Its port had docks, wharves, and shipyards. Its Golden Gallery contained displayed treasures of the Lannisters. The Hall of Heroes was where the valiant Lannister dead are interred. The Stone Garden was the Rock's godswood, and the Lion's Mouth was the Rock's main entry, an enormous cavern reaching two hundred feet high with steps wide enough for twenty or more riders.

He told stories that made her laugh of things he had seen growing up. When she began to grow drowsy, he could tell by her vague and mumbled replies.

"I ought to fetch a towel, sweetling," he murmured. She nodded, eyes closed, though she made a noise of displeasure when he disentangled himself from her arms and found a towel to wipe himself off with. He relieved himself in the privy and splashed some water on his face and around the back of his neck from the small privy basin.

When he climbed back up onto the bed, he gently pushed her over onto her back and began to wipe her off as well. Alyce opened sleepy owl eyes at him.

"Mm. Thank you." She took the towel from him and scrubbed harder at her belly and then between her legs. "I might need yet another bath."

"I can call for the water to be brought if you like."

"No." She cast away the towel and reached for him. Smiling, she nuzzled absurdly into him, exaggeratedly, pushing him over onto his back. He laughed in surprise.

"Bloody hells."

"Mmph." She settled down with a heavy arm and leg slung across him contentedly and closed her eyes again.

"So this is what it feels like to lie beneath a brick wall," he teased.

Alyce shifted her weight entirely up and then entirely down on top of him to his groaning " _Uff_!"

"Rather, _this_ is, you irreverent churl," she replied unconcernedly.

"This _can't_ be comfortable for you," he remarked, half-muffled from somewhere beneath her right armpit. She giggled atop him.

"When I die of suffocation, burry me someplace pretty."

She laughed a little and rolled off of him then, snuggling instead against his side. He kissed her head gently, smirking.

"It's too early for sleeping," he murmured to her, playing with her fingers.

Her eyes were closed. "We can do whatever the devil we'd like."

His eyes traced over her face, so close to his. Her dark lashes, her smooth, elegant cheekbones, the shadows cast by her nose and lips.

"You are exceptionally beautiful, Alyce," he told her quietly.

She didn't open her eyes. "A wealth that fades to nothing, I am told."

Tyrion smiled tenderly at that answer. "To be admired while it lingers."

"I should prefer you be taken by my more integral qualities."

"Do you mean your dry and cheeky sense of humor? Or perhaps your quick and articulate wit. Or do you refer to how strong and talented you are, or perhaps your levelheadedness? Maybe you just mean that terribly classical sense of morality and goodness that you operate by but try your best to disguise."

Her eyes were open now and she was watching him with an unreadable expression even though she was affected and gratified by his words. She shifted slightly and brought her hand to the side of his face, holding it with the tenderest touch. She moved forward slightly and pressed her forehead to his.

"Don't praise me so highly," she murmured in a whisper. "When I first saw you, I judged you, Tyrion, and my thoughts were not kind. If not for my oath and forced interest in knowing you as a man, I might never have come to understand who you are. That you have that _same_ damnable sense of goodness, even though this life has been nothing but miserable to you. That that means you have more inner strength than most anyone I have ever met." Her thumb caressed his cheek as she gazed at him. "That yours is the mind and heart of the best of men."

"Gods, but you're full of nonsense. What have they been feeding you?" His voice was light, but thick.

Alyce smiled just a little. She tucked her head down against his, her hand on his chest, and closed her eyes again. He ran his hand over her arm and touched her face with a tender, slow, and slightly-trembling touch that said far more than he had in words.

She grew drowsy again.

"I must be terribly uninteresting," Tyrion murmured. "You keep trying to fall asleep."

"I just crossed swords for an hour with a former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

"I suppose that does entitle you to a little tiredness. When do you want to call for supper?"

"Any time, really. Perhaps before I fully start snoring."

Tyrion smirked. "Do you really snore?"

"I don't know. I've never been told I do." She rolled onto her back and grinned at him.

"Might the queen demand your presence again at some point?" he asked. "How much time do we have?"

"I have asked Her Royalness not to send a summons for us unless in emergency. We have all evening and all night. I'll throw a bloody knife into that door if someone comes pounding on it."

Tyrion smirked and Alyce stretched lazily on her back, reaching her arms up above her head. "Read to me, Lord Tyrion," she told him. "And when I fall asleep, wake me up with your mouth on my cunt."

Lord Tyrion Lannister did exactly as she asked.

…


	36. VII: Dornish Stubbornness

…

VII.

Dornish Stubbornness

" **I** spent a whole half a year in Maidenpool four years or so ago. Varys sent me to stay and be instructed by a friend of his there—an absurdly eccentric man. I found a whole collection of lacy women's clothing in his wardrobe when I went snooping." Alyce smirked, playing with a lock of Tyrion's hair as he lay across the bed with her, his head on her stomach.

She continued, "But he was brilliant. He and I mostly played games and walked around the city. He had all these odd games he'd made up—games with dice, lying games card games, logical games, games using bits of buttons. We followed people and deceived people and pretended to be other people. He quizzed me about the insides of buildings we had just left. Nonsense like that. And then I went back to King's Landing and I realized how much more I noticed. How much easier lying was. How much easier I could sense someone's intentions. How the answers to riddles came more quickly."

She and Tyrion had been swapping stories since they had woken in the morning, loathe to leave the bed. He had told her the details of the Battle of the Blackwater and his part in it, as well as stories from his experiences in the years of summer peace under her sire, the King Robert, when Tyrion had been a younger man. She told him stories of her training and life under Lord Varys' command and her travels to different parts of Westeros.

"I wonder how many of you there are," Tyrion mused. "I mean, just how many fatherless children he's trained to do his bidding."

"I do what he asks because he took care of me," Alyce replied, a little stiffly.

"I don't mean to give offense. But it's likely you're not the only child to feel obligated to his care. He might have sent another student to this Maidenpool man directly after you left him. He likely has his own little army at the ready."

"I wouldn't put it past him, I suppose, but I knew a great many of the others in his employ. His little birds usually grow into his educated spies and message carriers. He places them around in different professions all over so he always has friends in every city. He usually has them groomed for specific things: message carrying, field work, City Watch, blacksmith, sailor, merchant's apprentice, that sort of thing. It seemed like I got a little bit of every sort of education—and more history and literature studies and certainly more weapons training than most. I could always be mistaken," she admitted, "but I tend to think I was rather a special student of his."

"I well believe it," he agreed. "Your highborn looks could get you in any court or castle in the Kingdoms. That and your gender are the perfect cover."

She ran her hand through his thick, dirty-blond hair. "Apparently he thinks I'm better suited to guarding than to the life of an assassin."

"And I know what you're suited for even better than guarding," he said with a crooked smirk, turning over to kiss her stomach. She let him kiss his way up to her mouth, but then after a moment, she put her hands on his shoulders.

"Remember the queen."

"She can join us, too," was his pert response.

Alyce laughed heartily, scooting away and tossing her legs out of bed to Tyrion's sighing groan.

"We need to wash," she told him, investigating the washroom. "The whole room smells like your cum." She came out in a robe. "I'm going to call for oils and more soap to be brought, as well as two baths worth of water."

Tyrion nodded and worked on finding and belting on some pants while Alyce was calling for a servant. She returned and browsed through her wardrobe while Tyrion opened the balcony doors for a bite of fresh air.

The water was brought quickly in a short parade of carriers, and the servants left the extra steaming hot water beside the basin. Their basin was a bit small, and Alyce looked rather comical trying to scrub herself while curled with her knees almost to her chin. She stuck out her tongue at him.

She drained the water, then used another pail to rinse off the last of the soap, especially from her hair. When she stepped out to towel herself off, Tyrion stoppered the bath again and Alyce helped him dump all but one of the remaining pails into it for his own bathing.

He grunted and scrubbed while Alyce combed through her hair, dried off more thoroughly, and then began to dress. Topless and in only her pants, she helped pour the last pail of water over him when the water had drained.

He watched has she applied some of the scented oils and crushed herbs the servants had brought. She rubbed a bit of oil onto his neck and he squirmed.

"What are you putting on me?"

"Sandalwood oil. It'd be a good scent for you." She rubbed a bit on his hand and he sniffed it experimentally. It did smell good.

"You're turning me into some sort of perfumed tosspot. Soon they'll be calling me the Knight of the Flowers."

"Not unless you're far handier with a sword than _I've_ seen evidence of."

It was his turn to stick out his tongue.

She sniggered at him and continued dressing. Today she put on a startlingly white silk wrap that hugged her body, and her usual airy, light beige half-pants and sandals. She ran her hands through her thick black hair to style it before she strapped and belted on all her weaponry.

"Are you going to grow your hair back out?" he asked as they left the room.

"I think so."

"I suppose I prefer it long, although you look surprisingly attractive with it cut like a man's."

"I _do_ rather."

"Pigheaded thing."

The queen was breakfasting and bathing with Daario Naharis according to her guards when they arrived at her suites, so they took their breakfast elsewhere, on the same balcony where Alyce had left him sitting on this very first morning in the pyramid. They were both fairly ravenous, so their banter and conversation stalled while they ate.

They waited outside of Daenerys' suites amongst Unsullied guardsmen until finally the door opened.

Daario Naharis stepped out and the door was closed behind him. He was flushed and bright-eyed from his morning's liaison, and he looked Alyce up and down brazenly. Alyce's hands traveled like a breeze to the hilts of her dirk and sword; Tyrion touched her leg with a hand as if to say _Don't_.

Naharis wedged his thumbs into his belt. "Ah, half a Westerosi lord and his pet snake," he greeted them coolly. "All coated with knives, looking more a hedgehog, really. Half a lord and his prickly cunt. A fearsome pair." He barked a short laugh.

The insults directed at Tyrion made her furious, but the pressure of his hand on the side of her leg communicated clearly his wish for her to remain still and calm.

"Yes, together we _almost_ make one man," Tyrion quipped with him easily, as if entirely unconcerned by his insults, "but not quite. How went your sortie, captain?"

"Very well, dwarf. I still might have some bits of some Yunkai'i's neck in my teeth."

"Yes, it's hard to scrub out," Tyrion agreed amicably. "All the tendons and gristle and whatnot—it took me a week to pull the last bits out of my molars the last time _I_ got some stuck."

Naharis' golden tooth glinted as he smirked at Tyrion's quips. "G'morrow, little lord." He turned and strutted away.

"Good morrow, captain."

Alyce fumed silently and Tyrion had the good sense not to say anything to her until the blue-bearded Tyroshi was well out of sight.

"I've half a mind to stab him in the throat, favored toy of the queen's or not," Alyce spit.

"You most certainly will do no such thing," Tyrion replied mildly. "Your enmity with him is counterproductive, Alyce. There will _always_ be foulmouthed whoresons like him running about. If I let myself get angry each time one wagged his tongue, I would not have lived as long as I have. It doesn't matter."

"It matters."

"You should at least _attempt_ to play nicely. We're stuck on the same council and in the same pyramid with him, and curdling his hostility will only invite the queen's disfavor."

 _And put you in danger._ Alyce shoved a hand in her armpit as she crossed her arms. "You're right to say so." _Though that doesn't make it easy._

They waited on the young queen to dress and emerge from her rooms. She appeared with Missandei, Irri, and Jhiqui, though the three girls went elsewhere on other errands. Only Rakharo and Aggo continued with her and her four Unsullied guardsmen as she walked with Tyrion and Alyce down the halls down to another level.

"Lord Tyrion," she greeted.

"How are you this morning, Your Grace?"

He mouth pursed. "After spending so much time with the Dothraki and the Ghiscari and Meereenese peoples," she said by way of reply, "I've realized that only Westerosi ask such a question as a greeting. If you think about it, it is both nosy and pointless at the same time. No one is actually honest about how they are. The Ghiscari exchange 'It's good to see you.' The Dothraki ask, 'Have you eaten?' Meereenese ask 'Are you here?' even though the answer is obvious."

"Just like with the Dothraki greeting, no one usually says they're doing poorly or haven't eaten," he replied. "It's just a custom. Wind instead of words."

"Here is your wind, then: I'm well. And how are you?"

He gave her a little smile. "Doing well, also."

Daenerys turned to Alyce. "Alyce, will you be spending some time with us today?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I'll listen to the lesson until Lord Tyrion and I must see to council matters, and then I will spar with Ser Barristan."

"Good. Perhaps I will come watch your bout. I haven't watched you train at all yet."

"Your audience would be welcome, Your Grace."

She nodded. Tyrion cleared his throat. "Shall we begin, Your Grace?"

"Alright."

Tyrion drew from his jerkin their topics and scanned them briefly. "You remember what we talked of yesterday about the habits of wild dragons?"

"The last thing I remember is how territorial they are—and how deadly the fights could get. You spoke of solitary adults presiding over spans of hunting land, and usually if more than one was sharing a territory, they were mated pairs."

"Yes. But the Valyrians bred out much of the territorial instincts in order to create strains of loyal, obedient dragons who would work relatively well in concert with one another."

"When we were talking of their intelligence, you also said Viserys had been wrong in telling me they could only learn to understand High Valyrian."

He was nodding. "Training a dragon to understand commands only in High Valyrian is tradition, but not necessary. They could also learn the Common Tongue if exposed enough to it. Rhaegal and Viserion likely know a few words in Meereenese after being fed by Meereenese guards for months. But what I emphasized was that dragons are far _more_ attuned to body language, tone, and intention than to human words. Like horses are said to be able to smell fear, so too can dragons sense intent and emotions. They can sense whether you are afraid, whether you care about them, whether you are friend or foe. They can be tricked, but not easily lied to.

"Some scholars and trainers of old consider their intuition to be even deeper. Dragons seem to have an uncanny ability to detect future danger approaching, as dogs can sense storms. They seem to be able to tell a person might be deceitful in the future, or that they are close to death. As you've seen, they can tell if a person even has a drop of Valyrian blood. Why does the blood matter? Why are they drawn to it? Or is the causal link backwards? Perhaps someone with Targaryen blood believes dragons will like them, trusts that they will, and the dragons can sense _that_ and not the blood itself?"

Daenerys seemed to find this fascinating. "I don't think the causality runs that way, Lord Tyrion, but it is interesting to consider."

"Have you ever seen a snake tasting the air?"

"Yes."

"Some trainers believed that dragons could taste the air in the same way—they could taste heat and breath and the chemicals swirling around us and off of us. They believed dragons could taste and interpret those chemicals in the air in the same way that you or I sense and interpret smells."

"So, if for instance we gave off different scents when we're lying or in love, that is perhaps how they can tell."

"Exactly." He looked pleased.

"But how much of language do you think they can comprehend? Full conversations?"

"Well, their minds work differently than ours. Language—other than being stimulus for action or result—has little purpose for them. They learn select words through causation, and the rest of communication they take from body language. But that combined with what they can _taste_ —for lack of a better word—of your wishes and intentions could potentially have a result somewhere near that if they had actually understood most of a conversation. But there is much debate on a dragon's level of intelligence. Many believe they are only as clever as horses or dogs."

"Drogon has always been able to sense how I'm feeling," said Dany. "When we were in the House of the Undying, and I was given visions by the warlocks of Qarth, it seemed to me he was responding to what I was seeing. Then he seemed to know exactly what to do to save us in the chamber." She reached a hand up to feel for where Jhiqui had fastened a little bell on a braid in her hair, symbolizing her victory over the Undying. It was no longer there; she had since won so many victories since then that she had let go of the Dothraki custom. But she still remembered the tinkling of that first bell.

Alyce walked behind them, her fingers interlaced behind her back. Dragons interested her, but she was not drawn to them. Her blood was that of warriors—of stone and of sea—not fire, Valyria, or magic.

"And Drogon was still young then," Tyrion was saying. "His mind has likely developed since. He will be even more intuitive now—even more responsive to you. …If he has not reverted too much to his wild nature."

Tyrion led them meanderingly to the pyramid library. His stunted legs were not made for long, drawn-out walking, and he was more comfortable sitting while teaching than walking. Alyce had only been in the library for a cursory glance around, and it appeared that Daenerys had never been inside before. They all took up seats around a table, though the chairs were old and stiff, and the queen called for some servants to fetch them pillows.

Tyrion was lecturing on learning that could be gleaned from tales of the Lord Freeholder's ancient and famous dragons when an Unsullied guardsman entered the library and gave a cursory bow.

"Lady Alyce," he greeted in Meereenese. "Commander Grey Worm wishes to speak with you at your leisure."

"If you can assign six Unsullied to guard Lord Tyrion," she replied in the same language, "I can see him as soon as may be."

The guard bowed and left to find guards for her.

"What was that about?" Tyrion asked.

"I'm needed elsewhere in the pyramid."

When the six Unsullied entered and placed themselves as Tyrion's guardsmen, Alyce left them and went down to the barracks to find Grey Worm.

Alyce had grown very fond of the Unsullied commander, and even found herself a touch attracted to him, despite his smooth cheeks and lack of those parts that define a man. He was clever and righteous, but so quiet and solemn most of the time—like a statue. Being around him made her want to make him smile. Private and fascinating minds always held fascination for her.

She found him with Skahaz mo Kandaq of the Brazen Beasts and Ser Barristan, and the four of them discussed her and Tyrion's seating and placement at both the wedding and the pit fight, as well as alternate plans if an attack should ignite while the queen was out in the open at both events.

Grey Worm particularly needed Alyce and Ser Barristan's advice when it came to their Dornish guests. The Dornishmen bothered the Unsullied daily about having another audience with the queen, and the Unsullied had gotten wind of them sniffing around Hizdahr's court for any potentiality to discredit him as a suitable husband to Daenerys.

"We should speak with them," Alyce told Ser Barristan, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward at the table. "Daenerys' cause could be hurt if they leave angry and bitter. She needs Dorne on her side, even if a marriage alliance is impossible."

Barristan agreed. "Let's go to their rooms."

The Dornishmen had been given spacious and luxurious guest suites within the endless pyramid. The handsome Ser Gerris Drinkwater was absent from the suites when Alyce and Ser Barristan called upon the men, but Prince Quentyn and Ser Archibald Yronwood were in Quentyn's suite. Yronwood was huge and bald as a stone, with arms thick as Strong Belwas'. Prince Quentyn was solemn, stocky, and plain as ever, even in his Dornish finery. The room smelled faintly Dornish—the scent of spicy food and the unique sharpness of Dornish sweat. Both men stood to receive them, and Alyce and Ser Barristan made respectful bows.

"Prince Quentyn, you look well," Ser Barristan said as they sat. He indicated Alyce. "This is Lady Alyce."

He nodded curtly. "My lady."

Alyce forced herself not to let one of her eyebrows quirk upwards. Lady of what house, pray? If she had been in his position, she would have liked to find out what lady of Westeros she was addressing, and she had been surprised Ser Barristan would introduce her in such a way. But she realized he had meant for the title to raise her in the prince's estimations and had counted on his shyness with women to keep him from asking questions. _Rather clever for the old man._

"I hope all your needs and wants are being seen to as Her Grace commanded," Barristan said politely. Yronwood stood at Quentyn's shoulder without taking a seat.

The prince's mouth thinned at this. "We do not lack for comforts," he answered, "but Queen Daenerys is ignoring us. We crossed the world to propose an alliance with Her Grace, and we might be able to convince her of the wisdom of it given the opportunity."

Ser Barristan sat back against the divan. "Prince," he replied slowly and thoughtfully, "if I may say, you look out at world through your eyes. You have a mission and priorities unique to you. It must be understood that so too does Queen Daenerys. You arrived after the pact was formed, so you did not see this city under the violent revolts of the Sons of the Harpy. Many people were dying in the black of night—every night. The queen has her people, her Unsullied, her freedmen, and her dragons to think of. If she had dropped this pact for you, all she has would have been thrown into terrible danger. You have no ships or soldiers to bear her from this place in safety or to protect her while she is here. She must act in a way that will guarantee the safety of her people and herself _before_ she can begin to consider Westeros. Surely this can be understood."

Quentyn's eyes looked less accusatory, but still he was unhappy. "If she wishes to conquer the Kingdoms as Aegon did, it makes little sense to root herself here. She wastes her time and soldiers."

Ser Barristan sighed. "That may be, to some extent, but consider practicalities. How would you suggest she gets out of this city with all her people and her army?"

Quentyn had no response. He struck Alyce as a stubborn child, unable to see other avenues to an answer than the one he had envisioned. She sighed internally but leaned forward, her face placid.

"Prince Quentyn," she said gently, "You and yours come at a difficult time, it's true, and your specific proposal is not in Her Grace's power to accept. But this does not mean Her Grace does not look to Dorne as her closest ally in the Seven Kingdoms. For the last few hundred years, Dorne and the Targaryen throne have been mutual friends, bonded through marriage and partnership. Her Grace respects your father and your family, and it is her intent to help Dorne seize vengeance for the losses it has suffered at the hands of the Lannisters if Dorne too will assist her in her vengeance against that same family and her campaign for the Iron Throne." She gazed at him. "This is only a change in the form and stipulations of an alliance, not the lack of an alliance itself. Her Grace and Dorne need trust and the sharing of strength and forces between them if they are both to achieve their desires."

Quentyn had not refuted her words, but she could see he was not placated by them, either. _The idea of a kingship over all the Seven Kingdoms at the side of a dragon queen—a kingship, not a lordship—is not an easy dream to set aside. Perhaps, for one so young…impossible._

"We have looked into this _Hizdahr_ ," Yronwood put in. "His supporters see the queen as an illegitimate ruler—an enemy. This isn't a city she can safely rule, even if she marries this nobleman."

"This is for the queen to decide," Ser Barristan replied without heat.

Yronwood's frown deepened, though he did not appear angry, only frustrated.

"Much and more may happen before the queen has the means and the sea power to make the crossing to Westeros," Alyce told them. "But when that time comes, she would like to be able to look to you as a friend, Prince Quentyn. She can give Dorne justice and power with alliances other than through marriage. You could do more for this alliance in Westeros than you can here."

"Here you are in as much danger as Her Grace or more," Ser Barristan added. "And if you were to be hurt or attacked under Daenerys' keeping, it could ruin the hopes of friendship for both sides."

"Selmy speaks truly, my Prince," Yronwood agreed. Quentyn shifted in his chair, unsatisfied.

"Return to Dorne with nothing?" He was looking at Yronwood.

"Let us discus with Ser Gerris when he returns," said his knight.

Ser Barristan stood and gave a bow and Alyce followed suit. "Thank you for hearing the council of this old man," he said humbly.

Alyce too gave a handsome bow. "Prince Quentyn, I was once introduced to your father Prince Doran in Sunspear many years ago. I was younger then, but I remember very strongly the respect for him I took from that brief meeting. Alliances among leaders of true merit like you and your father and Her Grace will heal the Seven Kingdoms. That is Her Grace's dream."

Quentyn seemed somewhat pleased by the words. He had little of the easy gallantry of nobility, but he nodded in acknowledgement of her.

"Thank you, my lady."

She and Ser Barristan took their leave.


	37. VIII: Unspoken

…

VIII.

Unspoken

" **Y** ou have a smooth tongue, Alyce," Ser Barristan complimented her.

"At times." She wanted to return to Tyrion and the queen. She parted with Ser Barristan; she would see him later for her training.

She returned to her position as a silent listener to Tyrion's education of the young queen, and when it came time for her training, Daenerys insisted on accompanying her and Tyrion down to the gallery to watch.

Alyce did not particularly enjoy the idea of an audience, but it did not affect her performance; the moment she engaged with Barristan, his movements and their battle became her entire world, and her mind did not have space to remember she even had an audience. Barristan too seemed unmoved that the queen was present. He barked orders, made her repeat herself until she moved to his satisfaction, and behaved no differently than when they were alone.

Today they were still working with longsword, and more intensely. Despite her armor, Alyce felt bruising welling in some places. But she was pleased with how well she had transitioned, despite her last training with longsword and shield being more than five years ago. Overall, for lack of a better word, she was _happy_. It showed in her focus and her confidence.

"Acknowledged," Ser Barristan grunted when she managed to land a particularly strong blow that rattled him. Alyce lowered her sword. "Leave me some energy for the young ones," he said, and gifted her a pleased smile. The boys were coming in, but lingering near the entrance of the gallery, rather afraid of the queen and her retinue.

Alyce bowed. For her part, she still had a great deal of energy left and was a bit disappointed not to fully tax herself.

She glanced over at their audience when Daenerys clapped appreciatively, standing.

"Rarely do I see such skill with arms," she complimented. Tyrion stood as well. Ser Barristan encouraged the boys inside the gallery and a couple of them helped Alyce off with her plate and mail. She breathed deeply, overwarm from exertion and the weight of the steel.

Pehzo, a young boy with some skill with knives, tugged on her shirt.

"Can we train today?" he asked her in Meereenese.

"I have time today, yes, but you'll have to ask Ser Barristan."

The boy hurtled away toward his teacher, and the knight gave her a glance and then nodded to the boy. Pehzo darted back and then Alyce brought him over next to the edge of the gallery where the open air over the marble railing looked out over the city and columns supported the high ceiling of the huge space.

Tyrion ambled over to watch her with the boy, though Daenerys remained to watch Ser Barristan's training of the rest as a whole. They were still donning their gear and talking.

She encouraged the child, showing him moves and lecturing on the limitations and advantages of adding a knife to a fight.

Sooner than the boy wished, Ser Barristan barked for him to join the others in his lesson, and Alyce straightened.

"Taking on a squire?" Tyrion asked with a smirk. Alyce shrugged.

"He's a sweet boy and has good quick hands for knifework."

"Quick from pickpocketing, I would wager."

"Perhaps."

"It seems you need another bath." They were walking out of the gallery. Alyce motioned for two Unsullied to accompany them. Tyrion gave a bow goodbye to the queen, which she nodded to before returning her eyes to the training.

"We shall go somewhere else this time."

"Oh the wonders of living like a royal."

"This one is more communal, but I'll do a little something about that." She led him down a few levels to one of the nicer communal washrooms. Outside the door, she murmured instructions to the soldiers in Meereenese, then led Tyrion inside.

This room, like the gallery they had just come from, had a wall open to the air interspaced with thick stone columns. The bath was in fact a very large circular pool, slightly scented with the smell of tea. White sunlight came down in stripes into the room from the breaks in the columns.

"Did they steep the water?" he asked her.

"A little, yes—the Meereenese believe green tea has healthful properties."

There were two older, entirely naked women bathing when they walked in, but seeing them, the women quickly got out, toweled themselves off, and dressed. When they had left, he and Alyce were alone.

"How often do they change the water?"

"Twice a day," she replied. "This bath isn't exactly meant for getting clean—more for bathing for one's health—and I'm being a bit rude to wash my sweat off here, but who's to say so?" She was undressing as she spoke. Tyrion did the same, though he mostly watched her. Alyce undressing held less of the erotic charge it had had before, but it was still a sweet and delicious sight.

The sunlight lit her differently than candlelight, and gave the edges of her figure a sort of glow. Her breasts curved gently, paler than the rest of her body, and her hips swayed with curves. Her eyes were a brighter blue in the light—that of a summer sky instead of deep waters.

The washroom was warm despite its size due to its openness to the arid outside air and the sunlight lighting it, but the water of the pool was pleasantly cool. Alyce's skin glinted with beads of sweat as she lowered herself into the water, sighing happily. She gazed at him as he moved toward her. The ends of his slightly-curly hair grazed the bathwater. He did not look an impressive sight standing in the pool beside her. At certain moments, Alyce still became tangibly put off by his appearance, but she concealed those moments from him to spare his feelings.

Tyrion did not immediately reach for her; he gazed at her as he sat beside her on the ledge of the pool, the water to his collarbone, and seemed content. Alyce rubbed her arms and legs in the water, and at one point pushed off the underwater stone seat to submerge herself in the slightly deeper center of the circular pool. She ran her hands up and back through her thick raven hair, then went under again. When she came back, she pushed her hair back and away from her face. She looked like a courtier with oiled-back locks, and Tyrion laughed.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing, sweet. Are those soldiers you left outside there to guard our privacy?"

"Yes."

"Excellent." He took one of her hands in his underwater and began running gentle fingers over her wrist and arm. The pleasures his fingers promised were known now to her body, and she tightened with expectation between her thighs.

"When is Daenerys going to let me see these fabled dragons of hers, do you think?" he asked her absently.

"Be patient."

"How angry would she grow if I were to try to go down and have a glance?"

"I don't know, but I should like to think you will not risk finding out."

He sighed. "It pains me to know there are dragons far below my feet and I cannot go see them."

"I know remedies to such pain," she murmured throatily to him, her fingers cupping his chin and caressing the bristly skin there. His eyes softened and smoldered; he moved closer to her. His fingers teased her waist, and she leaned and cocked her head to kiss and suck his skin where his neck joined his shoulder. They splashed a bit as Tyrion stood to shove himself close to her and ended up straddling her lap. She giggled into his mouth as he claimed it with his.

They kissed deeply, and more roughly than they had that morning. Tyrion was an excellent kisser… _And his hands…_

When he touched her, she heard their late-night conversations on the deck of the poleboat; she felt the comfort of pulling him to her under a fur the first night they had slept beside each other. When she opened her eyes to his, she saw all the agony of losing him, all the moments he had made her laugh, and remembered the way his eyes had looked when she had stepped into Yezzan's tent and found him again.

He nibbled down her jaw and onto her right earlobe. His cock was hard against her stomach in the water. He feathered kisses over her face and bit her shoulder deliciously hard. His hands pulled, his body pressing ever closer.

"Love, I want you so…" he groaned, pressing the tip of his cock against her entrance with his hand guiding it.

She put her hands on his shoulders, a little displeased with him. "Tyrion, I'm not ready for you."

He blinked at her twice, then his face fell with apology. "I'm sorry. Of course you're not." She could see the self-deprecating glint in his eyes, and she cupped his face in her hands to kiss it away. As sure as if she could read his thoughts, she knew he was thinking of whores and how he had grown used to their behavior. Whores pleased whether they were physically ready to receive or not.

The heat between them had fled on his side, she could feel, but it had not for her, and men were not difficult to arouse again. She pulled him tight against her as he sat in her lap in the water and kissed his temple, his forehead, very gently his ears. Her hands ran down and up his wet, warm skin.

She kissed his mouth slowly and steadily, her tongue warm and exploring, raking her hands through his hair and down his back. When his tongue flicked or went diving in her mouth, she groaned softly, and that groaning seemed to reignite him.

He held her tighter and also raked his nails down and up her flesh. Alyce liked that pain and pleasure froth of sweet kiss and sharp sting. She bit his lower lip. Tyrion's fingers teased her inner thighs, the terribly sensitive skin behind her ears, and exercised an excruciatingly developed patience while he avoiding touching her where she was pulsing with heat between her legs.

Their teasing shifted in its intensity, and they regained the roughness of a few minutes before. Tyrion pulled her head to his by her hair. She dug her nails into his backside to clutch him against her. As her fingernails circled his erection, Tyrion lowered his mouth to her warm, wet nipples and swirled his tongue. She arched in response and sucked in air with a gasp. " _Unhg_ …"

He kissed her breastbone, the pulsing hollow of her throat, and then his mouth was on hers again and finally his fingers were dancing between her legs. A whimper escaped her, and with a rush, she lifted them both out of the water with a splash to sit on the edge of the pool. She sat with Tyrion standing between her legs on the ledge, the water at his knees. He did not release her mouth as his tongue speared beside her cheek and his thumb began to rub back and forth across a place above her entrance that was too sweet to bear.

She gasped and bent her neck to mouth the skin of his shoulder, lest she cry out. He abandoned his touch to kiss her with both hands at the sides of her face, and her arms clutched him to her. They kissed hard, panting; Tyrion groaned like a broken man when she closed a fist around his cock and stroked up and back. Those groans set her skin on fire.

" _Gods_ …" he moaned.

 _No…just us. You and I._

" _Tyrion_."

His head was in her hands and he opened his eyes to hers to meet her fevered gaze. She nodded just once and he pushed himself inside of her wet, soft body, not taking his eyes from hers. He winced and groaned with the heartbreaking pleasure of first entering her but did not close his eyes. Alyce breathed deep, shuddering breaths as she pushed his hips away from hers and then brought them back tight so that he went deep.

His hand slipped between their bodies and he found where she needed to be touched. They gazed at one another as he rubbed her and she met his thrusts, her mewing and whimpering and him groaning and gasping.

He had not said the words since the first night she had brought him into the pyramid, but in his eyes was _I love you._

Alyce heard it inside her each time he groaned with each blissful rocking. Each time he breathed her name.

"Wait for me," she ordered breathlessly. He nodded and kept his completion back while their hips met roughly again and again and she fisted his hair in her hand. His hand was a magician's. His fingers wedged between their bodies seemed to be able to read her mind, even when conscious thought was beyond her.

She was copper and rose, the light silvering her skin. Tyrion pressed his mouth so hungrily, so adoringly, to the sculpture of her throat, thrown out to him by her tilted head. Alyce was trying to contain her writhing; she could not hold him fiercely enough or get his hand hard enough upon her. She braced her hips against his to catch his every movement. She had gone quieter again. Tyrion had learned that she grew quiet when overwhelmed by sensation.

She brought his forehead up to her mouth again with her fist in his hair, and under her panting breath, her noises of pleasure began again in a new pitch.

"Please," she whispered, her voice faint and childish in that moment, as finally his thumb sent her as high as she could go, and she began to fall blissfully back down in a rush of release. Tyrion could feel the contractions around him, the flash of heat, the new wetness. He moved his hand from her and held her with both arms, gazing into her expression of bliss, never stopping his fierce taking of her.

Her eyes opened to his. They were smoky. She took his backside into her hands and added an extra power as she tilted her head back again, her eyes closed.

" _Gods—Alyce—yes_ —" he gasped, dizzy with sensation.

His hands found her face and he brought her head down to kiss her hard and breathlessly as release rushed for his veins. Their eyes gazed, so close. _I love you._

He pulled himself from her with a slick sliding, as he let himself go with a cut groan; the wave crashed and took him down into resonant peace. There was quiet now, their bodies flooded with sweetness, and outside sounds slowly returned. Still groaning, he kissed her again and drank her mouth.

Smiling contentedly, Alyce lifted him so that he was out of the water and straddling her lap, and kissed him gently. Sometimes she could not get enough of his mouth.

On their way back to their room, they teased each other, touching and sneaking childish grabs, and at one point, Tyrion yanked her into a darkened alcove. She hauled him up into her arms, pressing his back against the cold stone of the dark wall, and they kissed hard, breaking occasionally to laugh.

Back in their room, they did not make it to the bed. Instead, Tyrion pulled her down to the floor on top of him, smirking devilishly. He put his mouth to her and gave her bliss again twice as she writhed beneath his tongue before her skin grew too sensitive to continue.

They made it to the bed then, and Alyce dropped her warm mouth down over his manhood. The hooding of his eyes and the helpless groans of pleasure that began to issue forth from him were deliciously gratifying. Despite having already spent himself earlier, he still did not last long under her power.

"There is no meeting today?" he asked later, when her head was tucked against his arm and he was still light-headed from the pleasures of her mouth.

"No. Every other day."

"Tomorrow, and next, and then the wedding."

"Aye." She kissed his arm near her mouth absently. "But I should spend some time with the queen tonight unless she is with Daario. Perhaps even if she's with Daario. She used to sometimes crawl into bed with me after he was asleep."

"Really? What did you talk of?"

"I just told her stories. And tried not be irritated that she was preventing me from sleeping." She grinned ruefully. "I can be grumpy when it comes to that."

Tyrion smirked at that, then murmured thoughtfully, "She is so young."

"She doesn't always act like it—except when she does."

"Your logic is certainly sound on that score."

"Hush up."

He chuckled and stroked her hair. "I hate to be deprived of you, but I suppose I can stand it, as long as you don't assign Daxros to guard me from my damnable _bed_."

His teasing did not make her giggle as intended. "If you were to disappear on me again, Tyrion…" she muttered. She didn't know how to finish her sentence. She shook her head slowly.

"Yes, Varys would be quite wroth with you."

Her arm, slung across his stomach, tightened. There were words in the back of her throat she could have said. Words about his importance to her. To the world. About her heart breaking if she could not keep him safe. But they did not come, and the moment passed in unspoken quiet.

…

* * *

Hello wonderful people! Especially those kind enough to review!

So a couple of you know me pretty well as an author and you know I usually end up creating soundtracks for the projects I get into and you've been inquiring after it (yes Emmy dear I'm looking at you), so here it is. It's separated by part, and if you have Spotify they're also up on there under (for example) "AoSF - Part I: Sworn Sword and Shield."

user/luckwouldhaveit/playlist/4Cla36MpL19yoJProHl8ik

 **Part I: Sworn Sword and Shield**

Game of Thrones (Main Theme), Boyce Avenue

Oh Bondage! Up Yours!, X-Ray Spex _I hate to scare you off the soundtrack this early with this doozy of an anthem, but this is definitely one of Alyce's theme songs. Keep going—I promise they're not all this caustic._

The Hands that Thieve, Streetlight Manifesto

Heavy Is As Heavy Does, Menomena

Daniel in the Den, Bastille

The Gloaming, Jonae'

My Body Is A Cage, Arcade Fire

The Wolves and the Ravens, Rogue Valley

Shenandoah, Scott Christopher Murray

Silver Dagger, The Staves

Once, Bradley Caleb Kane

I Don't Want Love, The Antlers

Perfect Sonnet, Bright Eyes

The Lion's Roar, First Aid Kit

(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight, Bastille

Acoustic #3, Goo Goo Dolls

Please Let Me Get What I Want, William Fitzsimmons

Monster, Runaground

Boots of Spanish Leather, Mandolin Orange

 **Part II: Another Day to Live or Die**

Silver Coin, Angus and Julia Stone

The Professor, Damien Rice

Sorrow, The National

God's Gonna Cut You Down, Johnny Cash

Rains of Castamere, The National

Another Day, Karan Casey / Tim O'Brien

Left Hand Free, Alt-J _Not even Alyce's left is free, but it's another good theme for her_

River, Bishop Briggs

The Future, Teddy Thompson

Sorrowing Man, City and Colour

Gotta Get Away, The Offspring

State of My Head, Shinedown

Ophelia, The Lumineers

Man of the World, Marc Cohn

I Don't Want to Change You, Damien Rice

Hysteric, Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Bloodstream, Stateless

Flames, Vast

 **Part III: Fire and Blood**

Starlight, The Wailin' Jennys

Work Song, Hozier

The Book of Love, The Magnetic Fields

Battles, Hudson Taylor

You Look Like Rain, Morphine

Over The Hills and Far Away, Led Zeppelin

Cover Me, Candlebox

Better Love, Hozier

I Send My Love To You, Palace Brothers

Vengeance, Zack Hemsy

Disparate Youth, Santigold

Killing in the Name of, Rage Against the Machine

Seven Nation Army, Melanie Martinez

Woman King, Iron & Wine

Fire and Blood, _Game of Thrones_ OST

...

I love discovering amazing music, so if you have suggestions, let me know! Thank you guys for all your support and kind words. You are lovely people!


	38. IX: Chains of Gold

_Author's Note:_

 _Hello everyone! I just got a new job and have to move my life to a new apartment across the state, so updates might come a little more slowly and more sporadically in the next few months. Apologies in advance! With love,_

 _& Thank you  & as always, enjoy!_

…

IX.

Chains of Gold

 **T** he wall and floor were not the most comfortable place to wait on a queen's pleasure, but Alyce fell asleep against the wall anyhow.

She woke when one of the guards gently nudged her with a boot.

" _Imoa kijakthi_ ," he said quietly in Meereenese, "it is very late."

"Is it quiet from her room?" he asked sleepily. She straightened her clothes as she stood.

"Yes. For a while now."

"Will you let me in, please? I'll share her bed for a bit tonight."

The guard glanced at the few knives she had at her belt but it did not stop him from opening the door for her. Alyce slipped inside. She waited a moment for her nightvision to grow sharper. Daario slept on the bed, bedclothes tangled in and out of his legs. Dany was standing on her balcony, sleepless, as she did so many nights.

Quiet as a cat, Alyce slipped through the room, but intentionally let her footfalls make soft sounds on the balcony floor as she walked to the queen. Dany turned and her face softened when she saw her. She turned away, back to the city, and wordlessly Alyce put arms around her from behind.

"I thought you might not be able to sleep," she murmured. Dany relaxed against her. The little queen's body was small and soft, such contrast to Alyce's hard planes and angles. "Enough thinking for tonight."

"Alyce: tell me. Am I making the right choice?" she asked very softly.

"Trust yourself," Alyce whispered. "Now look at me."

The girl turned and Alyce took her face in her hands and began to rub her fingers at points of stress. "At night, not even a queen needs to think. At night, a queen needn't be a queen. Come sleep. I will hold you."

She led her back to the bed, and, opposite of the sleeping sellsword, pulled her against her chest. She stroked her gossamer hair.

"In Braavos of a Hundred Isles, it is often misty, but they have a superstition that on clear nights, unwitting sailors can find themselves sailing on a river of the sky and be caught there, forever to weave in and out of the white, glassy stars," she murmured to her. "They say the night sky is like a sea of dew, black like a pool of water at midnight. The stars are great shards of glassy ice floating in this perfectly still sea, and if you watch the sky long enough, you can see a few streaks of ripples the ships sometimes make up there…"

…

Tyrion Lannister had slept so soundly the night before that his usual fitful sleeplessness caught him a bit by surprise.

He tossed in a bed that felt far too large for him in the blackness of the bedchamber. As he balled himself up, turning into his side, he realized the restless void within him had a name.

Alyce.

Without her, the fitful wheels of his mind turned without rest or sanctuary. He thought of his brother, his sister, and his father. He thought of the plots of Varys the Spider and of the Mad King Aerys. The black throats of Joffrey and Shae. Jon Connington and his purple-eyed princeling.

He turned over onto his stomach and tried to focus his thinking on the pleasures of the day. Its lazy morning in bed…the intent, violet eyes of the clever young queen…Alyce stripping naked and stepping into the pool…the face she made when swept up in release.

His cock stirred and tightened slightly but did not demand attention. He was still well sated from earlier. This afternoon and evening, he and Alyce had made love twice and given pleasure with mouths and hands after that. Not since he had been younger and he had spent days not leaving brothels had there been so much pleasure in such quick succession. Yet somehow this fulfilment went deeper—drove more sharply into his soul.

Everything was different now.

It had changed when her mouth had met his in Yezzan's tent, and his heart had been wrenched up with the force of autumn storm at sea. His heart of its own volition had given itself up in full, absurd surrender. All his plans for himself had changed. All his priorities had yielded to what now came before any other. All his hate and bitterness had cooled like doused coals, and a new fire had roared into existence at his center, life-giving and bright as a forge.

That she would come back… That she would hunt for him… That she would pull him to her body like something precious. That _such a woman_ would…

Alyce was no doe of her father's house of stags. Her fierceness was that of a mountain cat. Her tongue was barbed as a spear, her fingers quick and deadly, and her hidden sweetness a thousand times more precious for it.

If for her happiness she needed the stars to turn in a different direction, he would do everything in his power to make it so. If she was harmed, he would destroy the one responsible. And if she left him, he would be as pathetic as Mormont over Daenerys, searching for her in whores and cursed to remain unsatisfied by anything and everyone else.

 _Everything is different now._

Tyrion turned on his side, the thin sheet pulled to his chin and tried to find a few hours of sleep.

He woke as the bed creaked behind him. He started, and made to turn, but warm arms were already encircling him beneath the bedsheet, and he relaxed like a wave was washing out of his skin.

Alyce pressed her soft mouth against the back of his head and held him against her, his back curled against her front, her body surrounding his. There was something so comforting in the feeling, and in the scent of her, that Tyrion felt his muscles melting. She brushed back some of his hair away from the side of his face and toward her and his eyes closed at the touch. _I love you_ , he wanted to murmur. _Gods help me, but I love you so._

She stroked his hair again and he felt sleepiness and contentment trickling through him from his fingertips toward his head, where it pooled heavy and blissfully deep. She nuzzled her head against the back of his, sighing, and held him close in the darkness.

Tyrion wanted to stay awake to linger in these moments and commit them to his memory for always, but sleep reached for him with gentle fingers that could not be turned askance, and he sank into thoughtlessness in her arms.

…

"It's not fair to play with me when I don't know anything about the game. You have an entirely unfair advantage."

Alyce was protesting to continuing playing him at _cyvasse_ only because her pride hated losing to him, but Tyrion Lannister knew better than to say so.

The board was spread across their blankets on the bed and Alyce lay naked on her side across the board from him. She was too cautious a player and never made enough offensive moves; she also was not as clear as she should have been on the rules, despite him patiently explaining certain ones multiple times.

"It's too complicated a game," she complained. "The two of us would be more evenly matched at cards. I could teach you games I doubt you know that I picked up in the Company—then _you'd_ be the one struggling like this."

"You have too much pride, sweetling," he said mildly. "You won't become any good at things you give up on."

"Oh, easy for you to say, you great arrogant master of everything."

He smirked. She was sore over her loses and it was petulant and adorable. He felt suddenly like making love to her again.

"Then instead let us play something at which _you_ are the undisputed master," he announced.

She gave him a suspicious look. "And what would that be, pray? Not having a cock?"

"If by 'have,' you mean 'own,' and 'claim full and incontestable rights to,' then I assure you, you have one." He casually pushed the game board aside. Pieces scattered, and he began to crawl toward her, stark naked.

She had caught his meaning and a smirk quirked up the corner of her mouth. "Master of fucking, he says…I should get this in writing."

"I'll sign it," he japed. He raised his voice to announce, "Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Nothing, Heir to Less Than Shit, Lord Paramount of a Mummer's Fart" —she was laughing uproariously— "does hereby swear that Alyce Waters, the Bastard of a Wine-Soaked King of Whoring, is hereto and henceforth forever the most incredibly excellent and undisputed Master of Fucking, in all lands known and unknown, from the Bay of Lannisport to the Shadow Lands Beyond Asshai, and as such, shall be worshiped with copious amounts of oral pleasuring until her glorious cunt falls out!"

Alyce was beside herself with mirth, and Tyrion was parting her legs to wedge himself between them and kiss her shoulders. Her laughter turned to breathlessness as his fingers teased the skin of her inner thighs, and when she began to moan, he put his mouth to her.

…

In the evening after her sparring lesson, Alyce returned to their room to find Tyrion nestled in their bed and reading by candlelight.

Something about it…the darkness outside their curtained balcony opening…the warmth of the candlelight…his avid expression and the bedclothes piled and drawn up to his waist made a sight she wanted to take in for slightly longer than just a cursory moment. She stood watching him, and he gave her a look.

"What is it?"

 _You look nice_ sounded stupid, and so did _I like this._ Alyce shrugged. "I wanted to look at you like that for a moment."

"Hm." He watched her disrobe. The servants had already brought the water, and it was probably cold now, but Alyce stepped into the small basin and scrubbed off her sweat with a bit of cloth. She scrubbed under her nails and lathered some soap in her hair. There was no water to rinse her, but she toweled the suds off when she stepped out.

Clean and damp, she joined Tyrion in their bed. She nestled up against him and he put an arm around her so her head could rest on his chest.

"What are you reading tonight?" The man went through books and scrolls like an addict. There was a new one every day.

"A history of this city, the third volume in the set."

"Learn anything interesting?"

"Many things. The pyramids here are modeled after the ancient pyramids of Ghis, which were built even before the people that settled here had wheels or steel, and they took twenty or thirty years to build—all by hand. They used water as a natural leveling measurement to get the outer infrastructure level."

"All done by slaves, I imagine."

"Of course. The brick sewers of the city are rather an engineering marvel as well, but I won't bore you with those details. I happen, by unfortunate history, to be a scholar of proper sewer engineering."

She gave him a dry look. He closed his book.

"I'm not teasing—I actually am. When I turned sixteen, my lord father put me in charge of all the drains and cisterns at Casterly Rock. I did quite well with it—the sewage never flowed smoother than when I was at the helm."

Alyce grimaced. At the age of manhood, he was given a farce of a position while his two siblings had been given positions of respect and responsibility since their early teens—especially his brother Jaime.

"It's unfortunate that your lord father cannot die twice," she commented. "I should have liked to loosen his bowels for him as well."

"One cannot have everything." His dry, light tone never faltered. "Any new bruises?"

"Nothing of mark. He has me training with a damned shield now."

"You should consider fighting with a shield, Alyce, especially against adversaries that have reach on you—like a man fighting with a longsword. A shield is not just for defense—you would still be dual-wielding."

She was shaking her head. "In a proper full battle, yes. For guarding and daily defense? No, and you know I have the right of that. Ser Barristan is merely honing my older training, not trying to change my fighting style." She snuggled in tighter and pulled the covers up to her chest. "Read to me?"

He opened his book again, and his smooth voice began to speak of Meereen's class system. Alyce listened, relaxing. Today had been their last council meeting before the queen's wedding, and she felt nervous, though she knew Ser Barristan, Grey Worm, and the other commanders had taken every precaution and made every plan should something happen during the ceremony. It was to be relatively short and uneventful.

Tyrion truly did have a handsome voice. She loved closing her eyes and just listening to him read aloud. He sounded every bit the lord. _My status is not equal to his. He was born the great Tywin Lannister's trueborn son. I would have been a barefoot, purse-cutting bastard in Flea Bottom if not for Varys. We could have gone our whole lives without ever looking each other in the eyes._

He stroked her back as he read, and she felt drowsy and tender. Her charge and lover had some of the poorest luck in life as any in the kingdoms…

…but he had the mind of a king.

Alyce realized Tyrion had paused in his reading. She shifted her head on his chest and asked sleepily, "What are you thinking of?"

"This so-called peace our dragon queen is marrying for. The precariousness of it."

"It bothers me, too," she admitted. "Ser Barristan and I speak of it sometimes, but he would never question Daenerys' decisions. This city is a festering anthill, too mired in its old ways. She is too good for the butchery it would take to rule through force, and too precious to subject herself to the whims of these master slavers."

"Aye… The more I learn about Hizdahr, the Sons, the Great Masters, the forces here… No peace brokered here between her and these forces has any true strength. All the forces amassed outside the gates and all those of power within who did not enter with Daenerys want rid of her. Who is to enforce their leaving? She is trying to dig herself out of a hole, while all the while, the dirt she shovels out comes out from under her feet and she sinks deeper."

"She does not have the strength to destroy what has been massed against her."

Tyrion sucked on his own thoughts for a moment. "I mislike it—all of it. It has a sour, dangerous taste. But I do not have the power or the connections here to shift things as I did in King's Landing… I am making friends and learning the pyramid and its ways with every day that passes, but it is not enough. They will be wed the day after tomorrow."

"At least within this pyramid, she is safe. We make sure of that. Hizdahr could do nothing to her here unless he was suicidal, and we both know he values his own neck far too much."

"I have a couple small wheels already turning in protection," he said, "and I will finagle more pockets of influence and channels of information where I can after the wedding. If she is bent on staying here, her power _must_ be better cemented. These Sons of the Harpy…if their roots spread throughout the entire populace, not just the wealthiest amongst them, that is a deep and difficult problem. But the common people can be fairly easily pleased by largesse."

He trailed off, but she could still almost hear the wheels turning in his head. He was a great schemer, in same league with Lord Petyr Baelish and Lord Varys.

"That Missandei girl is a great deal cleverer than she appears," he commented after another moment.

" _Very_ clever for her age," Alyce agreed. "She knows these politics, and I have once or thrice heard her give suggestion to Daenerys or Ser Barristan, and always an insightful one."

"It is frightfully good to have clever women about," he murmured, nuzzling her head with his mouth gently. She smiled.

…

When the sun rose upon Daenerys Targaryen's wedding day, so did Daario Naharis, donning his clothes and buckling on his sword belt with its gleaming golden wantons. "Where are you going?" Dany asked him. "I forbid you to make a sortie today."

"My queen is cruel," her captain said. "If I cannot slay your foes, how shall I amuse myself whilst you are being wed?"

"By nightfall I shall have no foes."

"It is only dawn, sweet queen. The day is long. Time enough for one last sortie."

"No." She wanted him to stay and hold her. _One day he will go and not return,_ she thought. _One day some archer will put an arrow through his chest, or ten men will fall on him with spears and swords and axes, ten would-be heroes._ Five of them would die, but that would not make her grief easier to bear. _One day I will lose him, as I lost my sun-and-stars. But please gods, not today._ "Come back to bed and kiss me." No one had ever kissed her like Daario Naharis. "I am your queen, and I command you to fuck me."

She had meant it playfully, but Daario's eyes hardened at her words. "Fucking queens is king's work. Your noble Hixdahr can attend to that, once you're wed. And if he proves to be too highborn for such sweaty work, he has servants who will be pleased to do that for him as well. Or perhaps you can call the Dornish boy into your bed, and his pretty friend as well, why not?" He strode from the bedchamber.

 _He is going to make a sortie, and if he takes Ben Plumm's head, he'll walk into the wedding feast and throw it at my feet. Seven save me. Why couldn't he be better born?_

When he was gone, Missandei brought the queen a simple meal of goat cheese and olives, with raisins for a sweet. "Your Grace needs more than wine to break her fast. You are such a tiny thing, and you will surely need your strength today."

That made Daenerys laugh, coming from a girl so small. She relied so much on the little scribe that she oft forgot that Missandei had only turned eleven. They shared the food together on her terrace. As Dany nibbled on an olive, the Naathi girl gazed at her with eyes like molten gold and said, "It is not too late to tell them you have decided not to wed."

 _It is, though,_ the queen thought sadly. "Hizdahr's blood is ancient and noble. Our joining will join my freedmen to his people. When we become as one, so will our city."

"Your Grace does not love the noble Hizdahr. This one thinks you would sooner have another for your husband."

 _I must not think of Daario today._ "A queen loves where she must, not where she will." Her appetite had left her. "Take this food away," she told Missandei. "It's time I bathed."

Afterward, as Jhiqui was patting Daenerys dry, Irri approached with her _tokar_. Dany envied the Dothraki maids their loose sandsilk trousers and painted vests. They would be much cooler than her in her _tokar_ , with its heavy fringe of baby pearls. "Help me wind this round myself, please. I cannot manage all these pearls by myself. Where is Alyce?"

"She will meet Your Grace in the entryway after Your Grace makes her descent," Missandei answered.

She should be eager with anticipation for her wedding and the night that would follow, Daenerys knew. She remembered the night of her first wedding, when Khal Drogo had claimed her maidenhead beneath the stranger stars. She remembered how frightened she had been, and how excited. It would not be the same with Hizdahr. _I am not the girl I was, and he is not my sun-and-stars._

"Reznak and Skahaz beg the honor of escorting Your Grace to the Temple of the Graces. Reznak has ordered your palanquin made ready."

Meereenese seldom rode within their city walls; they preferred palanquins, litters, and sedan chairs, borne upon the shoulders of slaves. "Horses befoul the streets," one man of Zakh had told her, "salves do not." Dany had freed the slaves, yet palanquins, litters, and sedan chairs still choked the streets as before, and one of them floated magically through the air.

"The day is too hot to be shut up in a palanquin," said Dany. "Have my silver saddled. I would not go to my lord husband upon the backs of bearers."

"Your Grace," said Missandei, "this one is sorry, but you cannot ride in a _tokar_."

The little scribe was right, as she so often was. The _tokar_ was not a garment meant for horseback. Dany made a face. "As you say. Not the palanquin, though. I would suffocate behind those drapes. Have them ready a sedan chair." If she must wear her floppy ears, let all the rabbits see her.

When Dany made her descent, Reznak and Skahaz dropped to their knees.

"Your Worship shines so brightly, you will blind every man who dares look upon you," said Reznak. His fawning reminded Dany of the impression of his toadying Alyce had done of him the other day to make her and Missandei laugh, and she had to keep back her sudden urge to smirk, but she sobered soon enough. _Alyce is not fond of this man…and Quaithe warned me to beware the perfumed seneschal._ Reznak wore a _tokar_ of maroon samite with golden fringes. "Hizdahr zo Loraq is most fortunate in you…and you in him, if I may be so bold as to say. This match will save our city, you will see."

"So we pray. I want to plant my olive trees and see them fruit." _Does it matter that Hizdahr's kisses do not please me? Peace will please me. Am I a queen or just a woman?_

"The crowds will be thick as flies today." The Shavepate was clad in a pleated black shirt and a muscles breastplate, with a brazen helm shaped like a serpent's head beneath one arm.

"Should I be afraid of flies? Your Brazen Beasts will keep me safe from any harm."

It was always dusk inside the base of the Great Pyramid. Walls thirty feet thick muffled the tumult of the streets and kept the heat outside, so it was cool and dim within. Her escort was forming up inside the gates. Horses, mules, and donkeys were stabled in the western walls, elephants in the eastern. Dany had acquired three of those huge, queer beasts with her pyramid. They reminded her of hairless grey mammoths, though their tusks had been bobbed and gilded, and their eyes were sad.

She found Strong Belwas eating grapes as Barristan Selmy watched a stableboy cinch the girth on his dapple grey. Lord Tyrion Lannister was already astride his mount in an oddly cushioned saddle, looking taller than he ever had. The clothes he wore fit him well, and were finely made, and he had had his hair cut shorter and his beard shaved clean for the occasion. He looked younger with his jaw hairless and with a genuine smile on his face as he and Alyce shared some quip.

Alyce looked both fetching and fearsome in equal measure, and moved with her usual easy lack of self-consciousness, though she was weighed down by the mail, boiled leather, and breastplate she had donned. She wore her shortsword and two long dirks, as well as two other knives, and though Daenerys usually saw her in sandals, she was wearing sturdy boots on her feet today. At a quick glance, she could have been mistaken for a young man, but her plate stuck out too far over her bosom and her jaw was too slight and feminine. She seemed to be teaching Lord Tyrion about a dirk she had found for him to keep at his belt—a nasty piece of steel with a triangular blade. They looked up and saw her, and Alyce gave her a deep look as if to say, _Well…today. Are you still sure?_

The three Dornishmen were with Ser Barristan, talking, but they broke off when she appeared. Their prince went to one knee when the queen neared them. "Your Grace, I must entreat you. My father's strength is failing, but his devotion to your cause is as strong as ever. If my manner or my person have displeased you, that is my sorrow, but—"

"If you would please me, ser, be happy for me," Daenerys said. "This is my wedding day. They will be dancing in the Yellow City, I do not doubt." She sighed. "Rise, my prince, and smile. One day I shall return to Westeros to claim my father's throne, and look to Dorne for help. But on this day the Yunkai'i have my city ringed in steel. I may die before I see my Seven Kingdoms. Hizdahr may die. Westeros may be swallowed by the waves." Dany kissed his cheek. "Come. It's time I wed."

Ser Barristan helped her up onto the sedan chair. Quentyn rejoined his fellow Dornishmen. Alyce swung onto her mount beside Lord Tyrion's and Strong Belwas bellowed for the gates to be opened. Daenerys Targaryen was carried forth into the sun and Selmy fell in beside her on his dapple grey.

"Tell me," Dany said, as the procession turned toward the Temple of the Graces, "if my father and my mother had been free to follow their own hearts, whom would they have wed?"

"It was long ago. Your Grace would not know them."

"You know, though. Tell me."

The old knight inclined his head. "The queen your mother was always mindful of her duty." He was handsome in his gold-and-silver armor, his white cloak streaming from his shoulders, but he sounded like a man in pain. "As a girl, though…she was once smitten by a young knight from the stormlands who wore her favor at a tourney and named her queen of love and beauty. A brief thing."

"What happened to this knight?"

"He put away his lance the day your mother wed your father. Afterward he became most pious, and was heard to say that only the Miaden could replace Queen Rhaella in his heart. His passion was impossible, of course. A landed knight is no fit consort for a princess of royal blood."

 _And Daario Naharis is only a sellsword, not fit to buckle on the golden spurs of even a landed knight._ "And my father? Was there some woman he loved better than his queen?"

For some reason, Ser Barristan glanced at Tyrion riding just behind Daenerys. He shifted in his saddle, clearly uncomfortable. "Not…not loved. Mayhaps _wanted_ is a better word, but it was only kitchen gossip, Your Grace—the whispers of washerwomen. Not a fit thing to discuss so many years later."

Dany eyed him, more curious because of his hesitance. "I want to know. I never knew my father. I want to know everything about him. The good and…the rest."

"I do not think it would be appropriate in present company."

"He wishes not to bring up my mother's name in front of me, Your Grace," Tyrion spoke up easily from behind them. "I have heard a hint of that rumor, Ser Barristan, but my father never allowed any details to reach our ears. I should be curious about the particulars as well. You do not risk offending me."

Barristan grimaced.

"Tell me, Ser Barristan," said Daenerys.

"As you command, Your Grace…" The white knight chose his words with care. "Prince Aerys…as a youth, he was taken with a certain lady of Casterly Rock, a cousin of Tywin Lannister. When she and Tywin wed, your father drank too much wine at the wedding feast and was heard to say that it was a great pity that the lord's right to the first night had been abolished. A drunken jape, no more, but Tywin was not a man to forget such words, or the…the liberties your father took during the bedding." His face had reddened. Dany glanced behind her at Alyce and Lord Tyrion, who himself looked surprised by what the knight had said.

" _Gracious queen, well met_!" Another procession had come up beside her own, and Hizdahr zo Loraq was smiling at her from his own sedan chair. _My king._ Dany wondered where Daario Naharis was, what he was doing. _If this were a story, he would gallop up just as we reached the temple, to challenge Hizdahr for my hand._

Side by side the queen's procession and Hizdahr's made their slow way across Meereen, until finally the Temple of the Graces loomed up before them, its golden domes flashing in the sun. _How beautiful_ she tried to tell herself, but in truth she could not help but think of her captain. _If he loved you, he would come and carry you off at swordpoint, as Rhaegar carried off his northern girl._ Even if he was mad enough to attempt it, the Brazen Beasts would cut him down before he got within a hundred yards of her.

Galazza Galare awaited them outside the temple doors, surrounded by her sisters in white and pink and red, blue and gold and purple. _There are fewer than there were._ Dany looked for Ezzara and did not see her. _Has the bloody flux taken even her?_ Though the queen had let the Astapori starve outside her walls to keep the bloody flux from spreading, it was spreading nonetheless. Many had been stricken: freedmen, sellswords, Brazen Beasts, even Dothraki, though as yet none of the Unsullied had been touched. She prayed the worst was past.

The Graces brought forth an ivory chair and a golden bowl. Holding her _tokar_ daintily so as to not tread upon its fringes, Daenerys Targaryen eased herself onto the chair's plush velvet seat, and Hizdahr zo Loraq went to his knees, unlaced her sandals, and washed her feet whilst fifty eunuchs sang and ten thousand eyes looked on. _He has gentle hands_ , she mused, as warm fragrant oils ran between her toes. _If he has a gentle heart as well, I may grow fond of him in time._

When her feet were clean, Hizdahr dried them with a soft towel, laced her sandals on again, and helped her to her stand. Hand in hand, they followed the Green Grace inside the temple, where the air was thick with incense and the gods of Ghis stood cloaked in shadows in their alcoves.

Four hours later, they emerged again as man and wife, bound together wrist and ankle with chains of yellow gold.

…


	39. X: A Foul Taste

Hello again, all! I know it's been forever. Life has been so hectic. But I'm all settled in and I've done some writing over the holidays, so here is are some updates. They should be coming more regularly now. I hope you enjoy them!

Two quick reminders: I likely won't be writing this story past where the available canon ends at the end of _Dance_. Also, I sometimes use lines taken directly from the books, so this is me crediting George Martin.

Thank you! With love,

L&P

…

X.

A Foul Taste

 **T** he hall rang to Yunkish laughter, Yunkish songs, Yunkish prayers. Dancers danced; musicians played queer tunes with bells and squeaks and bladders; singers ancient love songs in the incomprehensible tongue of Old Ghis. Wine flowed—not the pale thin stuff of Slaver's Bay but rich sweet vintages from the Arbor and dreamwine from Qarth, flavored with strange spices. The Yunkai'i had come at King Hizdahr's invitation, to sign the peace and witness the rebirth of Meereen's far-famed fighting pits. Her noble husband had opened the Great Pyramid to fete them.

 _I hate this_ , thought Daenerys Targaryen. _How did this happen, that I am drinking and smiling with men I'd sooner flay?_

A dozen different sorts of meat and fish were served; camel, crocodile, singing squid, lacquered ducks and spiny grubs, with goat and ham and horse for those whose tastes were less exotic. Plus dog. No Ghiscari feast was complete without a course of dog. Hizdahr's cooks prepared dog four different ways. "Ghiscari will eat anything that swims or crawls or flies, but for man and dragon," Daario had warned her, "and I'd wager they'd eat dragon too if given half a chance." Meat alone does not make a meal, though, so there were fruits and grains and vegetables as well. The air was redolent with the scents of saffron, cinnamon, cloves, pepper, and other costly spices.

Dany scare touched a bite. _This is peace_ , she told herself. _This is what I wanted, what I worked for, this is why I married Hizdahr. So why does it taste so much like defeat?_

"It's only for a little while more, my love," Hizdahr had assured her. "The Yunkai'i will soon be gone, and their allies and hirelings with them. We shall have all we desired. Peace, food, trade. Our port is open once again, and ships are being permitted to come and go."

"They are permitting that, yes," she had replied, "but their warships remain. They can close their fingers around our throat again whenever they wish. _They have opened a slave market within sight of my walls!_ "

" _Outside_ the walls, sweet queen. That was a condition of the peace, that Yunkai would be free to trade in slaves as before, unmolested."

"In their own city. Not where I have to see it." The Wise Masters had established their slave pens an auction block just south of the Skahazadhan, where the wide brown river flowed into Slaver's Bay. "They are mocking me to my face, making a show of how powerless I am to stop them."

"Posing and posturing," said her noble husband. "A show, as you have said. Let them have their mummery. When they are gone, we will make a fruit market of what they leave behind."

"When they are gone," Dany repeated. "And when will they be gone? Riders have been seen beyond the Skahazadhan. Dothraki scouts, Rakharo says, with a khalasar behind them. They will have cpatives. Men, women, and children, gifts for the slavers." Dothraki did not buy or sell, but they gave gifts and received them. "That is why the Yunkai'i have thrown up this market. They will leave her with thousands of new slaves."

Hizdahr zo Loraq shrugged. "But they will leave. That is the important part, my love. Yunkai will trade in slaves. Meereen will not, this is what we have agreed. Endure this for a little while longer, and it shall pass."

So Daenerys sat silent through the meal, wrapped in a vermillion _tokar_ and black thoughts, speaking only when spoken to, brooding on the men and women being bought and sold outside her walls, even as they feasted within the city. Let her noble husband make the speeches and laugh at the feeble Yunkish japes.

 _No queen has clean hands_ , she told herself. She thought of Doreah, of Quaro, or Eroeh…of a little girl she had never met, whose name was Hazzea. _Better a few should die in the pit then thousands at the gates. This is the price of peace, I pay it willingly._

The Yunkish Supreme Commander, Yurkhaz zo Yunzak, might have been alive during Aegon's Conquest, to judge by his appearance. Bent-backed, wrinkled, and toothless, he was carried to the table by strapping slaves. The other Yunkish lords were hardly more impressive. One was short and stumpy, though his slave solider were grotesquely tall and thin. The third was young, fit, and dashing, but so drunk that Dany could scarce understand a word he said. _How could I have been brought to this pass by creatures such as these?_

The sellswords were a different matter. Each of the four free companies serving Yunkai had sent its commander. The Windblown were represented by the Pentoshi nobleman known as the Tattered Prince, the Long Lances by Gylo Rhegan, who looked more shoemaker than solider and spoke in murmurs. Bloodbeard, from the Company of the Cat, made enough noise for him and a dozen more. A huge man with a great bush of beard and a prodigious appetite for wine and women, he bellowed, belched, and pinched every serving girl who came within his reach. From time to time he would pull one down into his lap to squeeze her breasts and fondle her between the legs.

The Second Sons were represented, too. _If Daario were here, this meal would end in blood._ No promised peace could ever have persuaded her captain to permit Brown Ben Plumm to stroll back into Meereen and leave alive. Dany had sworn that no harm would come to the seven envoys and commanders, though that had not been enough for the Yunkai'i. They had required hostages of her as well. To balance the four Yunkish nobels and four sellsword captains, Meereen had sent seven of its own out into the siege camp: Hizdahr's sister, two of his cousins, Dany's bloodrider Jhogo, her admiral Groleo, the Unsullied captain Hero, and Daario Naharis.

The Shavepate was absent as well. The first thing Hizdahr had done upon being crowned was to remove him from command of the Brazen Beasts, replacing him with his own cousin, the plump and pasty Marghaz zo Loraq. _It is for the best. The Green Grace says there is blood between Loraq and Kandaq, and the Shavepate never made secret his disdain for my lord husband. And Daario…_

Daario had only grown wilder since her wedding. Her peace did not please him, her marriage pleased him less, and he had been furious at being deceived by the Dornishmen. When Prince Quentyn told them that the other Westerosi had come over to the Stormcrows at the command of the Tattered Prince, only the intercession of Grey Worm and his Unsullied prevented Daario from killing them all. The false deserters had been imprisoned safely in the bowels of the pyramid…but Daario's rage continued to fester.

 _He will be safer as a hostage. My captain was not made for peace._ Dany could not risk his cutting down Brown Ben Plumm, making mock of Hizdahr before the court, provoking the Yunkai'i, or otherwise upsetting the agreement that she had given up so much to win. Daario was war and woe. Henceforth, she must keep him out of her bed and out of her heart. If he did not betray her, he would master her, and she did not know which of those she feared the most.

Dany's gaze found the fierce Westerosi guardswoman Alyce—daughter of the Usurper—amidst the crowd at the tables of her men and councilors with Lord Tyrion Lannister beside her. She was making effortless conversation with Stripeback, Belwas, and even Jokin—Daario's second-in-command—Dany was pleased to see. But Daenerys knew her, and knew she would be happier either alone with her Lannister lord or in the quiet of the Unsullied ranks, though none of the Unsullied were sitting in attendance for the feast.

She watched Lord Tyrion comment something private to her—an observation of some kind—and the two exchanged words cheek-to-cheek, Lord Tyrion nodding. Something about it was so intimate somehow, even though they were doing nothing but sharing thoughts, that Dany felt curdled licks of jealousy in her stomach. They had both found a partner of the mind. While she, even though these celebrations were _for_ her, was alone.

Grey Worm had told her that Lord Tyrion Lannister had had two secretive meetings with the deposed leader of the Brazen Beasts since she had married. The Shavepate, though disposed, was loyal to her, so these meetings did not garner much suspicion, but it was odd. It was impolitic of the dwarf lord to pursue connections her lord husband had so obviously cut away. _Men like him play their own games. I must remain vigilant in watching him, no matter how charming he is in his strange way. He is obscenely clever. And even though I care dearly for Alyce…her loyalty is to him above me. This she has never shied away from admitting._

When all the gluttony was done and all the half-eaten food had been cleared away—to be given to the poor who gathered below, at the queen's insistence—tall glass flutes were filled with a spiced liquor from Qarth as dark as amber. Then began the entertainments.

A troupe of Yunkish castrati owned by Yurkhaz zo Yunzak sang them songs in the ancient tongue of the Old Empire, their voices high and sweet and impossibly pure. "Have you ever heard such singing, my love?" Hizdahr asked her. "They have the voices of gods, do they not?"

"Yes," she said, "though I wonder if they might not have preferred to have the fruits of men."

All of the entertainers were slaves. That had been part of the peace, that slaveowners be allowed the right to bring their chattels into Meereen without fear of having them freed. In return the Yunkai'i had promised to respect the rights and liberties of the former slaves that Dany had freed. A fair bargain, Hizdahr said, but the taste it left in the queen's mouth was foul. She drank another cup of wine to wash it out.

Afterward her lord husband led his guests onto the lower terrace, so the visitors from the Yellow City might behold Meereen by night. Wine cups in hand, the Yunkai'i wandered the garden in small groups, beneath lemon trees and night-blooming flowers, and Dany found herself face-to-face with Brown Ben Plumm.

He bowed low. "Worship. You look lovely. Well, you always did. None of them Yunkishmen are half so pretty. I thought I might bring a wedding gift for you."

"I want no gifts from you."

"This one you might have. The biding went too high for old Brown Ben, but no matter, you ended up with his head, anyway." He nodded toward Tyrion Lannister standing amidst a small group under some drooping green branches. "Though I see that it's still on his shoulders. That's not the way I would have given it to you."

"I have found Lord Lannister's head more useful to me on his neck for the nonce. And he himself has done little personally to wound me. It seems to me that if you wanted to gift me the head of a foe, yours would fit the title far better. You betrayed me."

"Now, that's a harsh way o' puttin' it, if you don't mind me saying." Brown Ben scratched at his speckled grey-and-white whiskers. "We went over to the winning side, is all. Same as we done before. It weren't all me, neither. I put it to my men."

"So they betrayed me, is that what you are saying? Why? Did I mistreat the Second Sons? Did I cheat you on your pay?"

"Never that," said Brown Ben, "but it's not all about the coin, Your High-and-Mightiness. I learned that a long time back, at my first battle. Morning after the fight I was rooting through the dead, looking for the odd bit o' plunder, as it were. Came upon this one corpse, some axeman had taken his whole arm off at the shoulder. He was covered with flies, all crusty with dried blood, might be why no one else had touched him, but under them he wore this studded jerkin, looked to be good leather. I figured it might fit me well enough, so I chased away the flies and cut it off him. The damn thing was heavier than it had any right to be, though. Under the lining, he'd sewen a fortune in coin. Gold, Your Worship, sweet yellow gold. Enough for any man to live like a lord for the rest o' his days. But what good did it do him? There he was with all his coin, lying in the blood and mud with his fucking arm cut off. And that's the lesson, see? Silver's sweet and gold's our mother, but once you're dead, they're worth less than that last shit you take as you lie dying. I told you once, there are old sellswords and there are bold sellswords, but there are no old bold sellswords. My boys didn't care to die, that's all, and when I told them you couldn't unleash those dragons against the Yunkishmen, well…"

 _You saw me as defeated,_ Dany thought, _and who am I to say that you are wrong?_ "I understand." She might have ended it there, but she was curious. "Enough gold to live like a lord, you said. What did you do with all that wealth?"

Brown Ben laughed. "Fool boy that I was, I told a man I took to be my friend, and he told our serjeant, and my brothers-in-arms come and relieved me of that burden. Serjeant said I was too young, that I'd only waste it all on whores and such. He let me keep the jerkin, though." He spat. "You don't ever want to trust a sellsword, m'lady."

"I have learned that much. One day I must be sure to thank you for the lesson."

Brown Ben's eyes crinkled up. "No need. I know the sort o' thanks you have in mind." He bowed again and moved away.

Dany turned to gaze out over her city. Beyond her walls the yellow tents of the Yunkai'i stood in orderly rows beside the sea, protected by the ditches their slaves had dug for them. Two iron legions out of New Ghis, trained and armed in the same fashion as Unsullied, were encamped across the river to the north. Two more Ghiscari legions had made camp to the east, choking off the road to the Khyzai Pass. The horse lines and cookfires of the free companies lay to the south. By day thin plumes of smoke hung against the sky like ragged grey ribbons. By night the distant fires could be seen. Hard by the bay was the abomination, the slave market at her door. She could not see it now, with the sun set, but she knew that it was there. It made her angrier.

"Ser Barristan?" she said softly.

The white knight appeared at once. "Your Grace."

"How much did you hear?"

"Enough. He was not wrong. Never trust a sellsword."

 _Or a queen_ , thought Dany. "Is there some man in the Second Sons who might be persuaded to…remove…Brown Ben?"

"As Daario Naharis once removed the other captains of the Stormcrows?" The old knight looked uncomfortable. "Perhaps. I would not know, Your Grace."

 _No_ , she thought, _you are too honorable._

Her eyes lingered a moment on the Lannister dwarf's turned back across the garden. _Others are better suited for such low work._ But entrusting the Lord of Lannister with such a task would give him more power—power with which he could further help her or with which he could more deeply wound her. Some said he had already risen too high into her good graces without enough proof of his loyalties. She thought perhaps they spoke truly. _We all want the love of our families, do we not? I wanted Viserys' so dearly I let him cut me over and over and over again. Can this Lannister be much different when it comes to his brother and sister?_

The one thing she knew for certain about him was that he was entirely, unreservedly, and helplessly in love with his sworn sword and shield. It was apparent to anyone with eyes. Alyce was not a woman she could control, but Daenerys did trust her. If Alyce was hers, so was the heir of Casterly Rock.

 _I will begin to make use of him soon_ , she decided, _for tasks other than tutelage. We will see what this clever man can win me._

It was well past midnight when the last of their guests took their leave and Dany retired to her own apartments to join her lord and king. Hizdahr at least was happy, if somewhat drunk. "I keep my promises," he told her, as Irri and Jhiqui were robing them for bed. "You wished for peace, and it is yours."

 _And you wished for blood, and soon enough I must give it to you,_ Dany thought, but what she said was, "I am grateful."

The excitement of the day had enflamed her husband's passions. No sooner had her handmaids retired for the night than he tore the robe from her and tumbled her backwards into bed.

She remembered the first three nights of her marriage when Hizdahr would think them alone, but Alyce was in hiding in the shadows on her balcony or poised outside of their bedchamber door listening for any sounds of distress. The girl mistrusted Hizdahr with a cool distance. Hizdahr did not know her well enough to be offended by it.

Hizdahr had attempted nothing malicious on the first, second, or third nights of their union, and tonight Alyce was elsewhere with her lord and charge. Strangely, Daenerys missed her unseen presence.

She slid her arms around Hizdahr and let him have his way. Drunk as he was, she knew he would not be inside her long.

Nor was he. Afterward he nuzzled at her ear and whispered, "Gods grant that we have made a son tonight."

The words of Mirri Maz Duur rang in her head. _When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before._ Khal Drogo was as like to return from the dead as she was to bear a living child… But there are some secrets she could not bring herself to share, even with a husband, so she let Hizdahr zo Loraq keep his hopes.

Her noble husband was soon fast asleep. Daenerys could only twist and turn beside him. She wondered what Daario was doing. Was he restless as well? Was he thinking about her? Did he love her, truly? Did he hate her for marrying Hizdahr? _I should never have let him into my bed._ He was only a sellsword, no fit consort for a queen.

 _I knew that all along, but I did it anyway._

"My queen?" said a soft voice in the darkness.

Dany flinched. "Who is there?"

"Only Missandei." The Naathi scribe moved closer to the bed. "This one heard you crying."

"Crying? I was not crying. Why would I cry? I have my peace, I have my king, I have everything a queen might wish for. You had a bad dream, that was all."

"As you say, Your Grace." She bowed and made to go."

"Stay," said Dany. "I do not wish to be alone."

"His Grace is with you."

"His Grace is dreaming, but I cannot sleep. On the morrow, I must bathe in blood. The price of peace." She smiled wanly and patted the bed. "Come. Sit. Talk with me."

"If it please you." Missandei sat down beside her. "What shall we talk of?"

"Home," said Dany quietly. "Naath. Butterflies and brothers. Your dreams and hopes. Someone rather clever told me that a person should dwell among these in the time between lying down and sleeping and that they should not let the nighttime have their worries. Tell me of the things that make you happy, the things that make you giggle, all your sweetest memories. Remind me that there is still good in the world."

Missandei did her best. She was still talking when Dany finally fell to sleep, to dream queer, half-formed dreams of smoke and fire.

The morning came too soon.

…


	40. XI: The Mortal Art

…

XI.

The Mortal Art

" **I** do hope your anger is not at me."

Alyce Waters drew her distant gaze back to focus on his scarred face. "My anger?" she asked.

Tyrion Lannister stopped buttoning his shirt for a moment, his hands resting at the edges of the fabric while he returned her gaze. "You're very good at hiding these things, sweet…but I can taste your black mood at the back of my tongue."

Her voice was dry when she replied, "I thought yours was a house of lions, not dragons. Who are you to taste my moods on the air?"

 _The man who loves you_ , he thought."It thins the air around your skin. It's in your eyes."

"Do I have mummer's eyes that they change color with my feelings?"

She was being evasive, however poetic.

Alyce was sitting on the bed and as Tyrion walked to her, she opened her legs so that he could step between them. He said nothing; it was one of his cleverest ways to get another person to talk. Alyce knew his tricks. She loved him for them.

She put a hand to his face, cupping his check and chin, and he moved his jaw into her touch, while keeping his mismatched eyes on hers. She felt his breath warm her skin as he kissed her palm softly. That touch made her want him buried inside her—made her want to wrap herself around him.

"This is defeat masquerading as compromise," she said at length. "You know that as well as I do. But I don't think you hate the feeling of it quite like I do, because you're a man. To me, this feels like Daenerys sucking cock for peace. Like her forced onto her knees. And that image makes my thoughts linger on poisons….and my hands lust for arrows enough to kill a thousand men."

His fingers traced hers gently, his gaze deep and serious. "Then I will see it done."

"Ah. I see. You were a Faceless Man this entire time. Well, go to it, then."

His mouth quirked up briefly at her quips, then an uncharacteristic seriousness returned. "I will see her on her feet again and these whoreson slavers dead. In two years, or ten. But it will be done." He gazed at her. "Do you doubt me?"

She weighed her answer a moment. "Not your heart."

"My mind, then?"

"No."

"Those are all I need."

Her lips thinned. "You had both in King's Landing, and things did not turn out as I imagine you planned. The smallfolk have a saying: making plans is the surest way to hear the gods laugh."

"I have given the gods enough laughter. It's time I bring about a reckoning for all that they have done."

"If there is to be killing, you are to leave it to me, my dear Lord Turtle."

"If you leave schemes to me."

She glanced at him with slight wounding. "I don't lack the head for schemes."

"You have a _plethora_ of talents."

She turned his head with her fingers at his chin so that his eyes were on hers again. "Am I in on all of these schemes of yours?"

His eyes softened and he smiled a little. _If only you knew, dearheart._ _You are the partner I never had. You are the reason life and breath has sweetness._

"Aye, love," he murmured gently.

Alyce was in fact, he had found, the perfect person to air his ideas to—she critiqued and added clever considerations and thought in a similar, crafty way. He craved closeness with her, and because of it he had brought her in on a great many things. She too shared confidences with him. Perhaps not all her confidences, but the trust between them built every day.

He brought her hand to his mouth to kiss her fingers. "I have to keep dressing."

She considered him with a smoky look in her eyes that told him she was thinking of waylaying their departure with lovemaking. But he knew it was because she was anxious and angry and wanted to ease some of it all with the pleasure of their bodies.

"Come here," Tyrion said. He took her face in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers. "Today the Pit will be opened and slaves will die for sport. Today our dragon queen is on her knees. But it will not be for long. We will correct this. We have already begun."

"Is this a 'no' to my idea involving arrows, then?"

He chuckled and kissed her hand. She pulled his mouth to hers and Tyrion lost himself as he so often did when he was with her. His mind drained blank as a page, and he was unable even to remember his name. Once, on a rocky shore, she had breathed and kissed him back to life, and sometimes it was as if she were doing it again…as if he had not been alive in the moments before, but her breath in his mouth was his life returned.

This morning it remained only a kiss, and Tyrion finished dressing. In a sheath Alyce had attached to his belt, he carried a gift from her—a vicious triangular-bladed dirk. His clothes were handsome, but not his absolute finest—taking precedent over finery was the need to remain as cool as possible in the punishing heat the cloudless blue sky threatened. The bricks of Meereen would soon be baking in the blistering sun, and out on the sands today, the fighters would be able to feel the heat through the soles of their sandals. Even the shaded audience would suffer.

Alyce was already dressed in a taut brown leather vest, her light Meereenese pants, and boots, and she carried at her thick belt her shortsword, two long dirks, two more thick, deadly knives, and her bow and quiver were resting against the chest at the end of their bed—she would strap them across her back before they left the room. Her hair was sticking out in all directions; she had not yet glanced in a mirror to comb her fingers through it.

When she lifted a dun brown gauze veil from her wardrobe chest, Tyrion gave her a look of mild surprise.

"How eastern of you," he commented, making light mock.

The teasing did not affect her in the slightest. "You'll envy me this when dust and flies get in your eyes and ears," she replied easily. "Meereenese women have lived and died for a thousand years in this desert—one would be a fool not to take from their wisdom."

Tyrion made a little bow. "And I bow to yours."

"Mm. Do you truly?"

There was something in her eyes that made Tyrion slightly wary. "In most things," he answered carefully.

"Then you'll heed me now when I ask you to allow Unsullied to carry you down these neverending steps in a sedan chair. I have already called for one."

Tyrion sighed internally, his pride cringing, but all the same he was grateful for her foresight. He simply would not have made it down all the steps between their level and the base of the Great Pyramid. He would have had to be carried, and sedan chairs were far more respectable than being hoisted like a babe in arms.

"I will," he agreed in a low voice. "Thank you."

Alyce swung her bow and quiver onto her back and they left their chambers to make the descent and wait upon the queen.

…

 _BOMM_. A great drum and a shavepate herald in a shirt of polished copper disks cleared the way for the royal procession through the streets. "They come!" _BOMM_. "Our queen! Our king!" _BOMM_. "Make way!"

Heat rose from the many-colored bricks of Meereen in shimmering waves. People swarmed everywhere. Some rode litters or sedan chairs, some forked donkeys, many were afoot. Nine of every ten were moving westward, down the broad brick thoroughfare. They cheered the royal palanquin.

Strong Belwas in his studded vest had no love for horses, and he walked ahead, his enormous brown belly jiggling with his steps. Ser Barristan rode alongside Daenerys and Hizdahr's palanquin, at the queen's side, his fine armor flashing in the sun and a long cloak of white flowing from his shoulders. He carried a large white shield in his left arm.

Irri, Jhiqui, Aggo, and Rakharo followed, ahorse, then Reznak in an ornate sedan chair with an awning to keep the sun off him. Ser Jorah—clad again in mail and clean shaven—Alyce, and Tyrion rode behind. Tyrion watched their company and Alyce's eyes were peeled for danger around and about them. Her horse swayed sinuously, its flanks almost hot to the touch, and though it felt good to ride and to be outside of the pyramid, the beady eyes of onlookers had her teeth on edge. A little farther behind them was Quentyn Martell with his two companions. They had not taken hers and Ser Barristan's advice to heart and still lingered in the city.

Alyce could hear in front of them as the queen's Dothraki handmaids argued over who was going to win in the pit. She could not understand their language, but she heard the names of the favored fighters on their lips. 'Goghor' was more bull than man to hear Tyrion tell it, and he was to be pitted against Belaquo Bonebreaker, who used a famous flail. Life and death went hand in hand among the horselord's hordes, and the flowing of blood was thought to bless a marriage. To them, this was a fitting pastime to celebrate the queen's union to Meereen.

At the gates of Daznak's Pit, two towering bronze warriors stood locked in mortal combat. One wielded a sword, the other an axe; the sculptor had depicted them in the act of killing one another, their blades and bodies forming an archway overhead.

Alyce had seen fighting pits many times from the queen's terrace—the small ones dotted Meereen like pockmarks; the larger were weeping sores, red and raw. None compared to this one, though.

Strong Belwas and Ser Barristan fell in to either side as the queen and her lord husband passed beneath the bronzes, to emerge at the top of a mighty brick bowl ringed by descending tiers of benches, each a different color.

Hizdahr zo Loraq led the queen down, through black, purple, blue, green, white, yellow, and orange, to the red, where the scarlet bricks took the color of the sands below. Around them, peddlers sold dog sausages, roast onions, and unborn puppies on a stick, but the queen seemed to have no need of such. Hizdahr had stocked their box with flagons of chilled wine and sweetwater, with figs, dates, melons, and pomegranates, with pecans, peppers, and a big bowl of honeyed locusts. Strong Belwas bellowed, "Locusts!" as he seized the bowl and began to crunch them by the handful.

"Those are very tasty," advised Hizdahr. "You ought to try a few yourself, my love. They are rolled in spice before the honey, so they are sweet and hot at once."

"That explains why Belwas is sweating," Dany said. "I believe I will content myself with figs and dates."

Across the pit the Graces sat in flowing robes of many colors, clustered around the austere figure of Galazza Galare, who alone amongst them wore the green. The Great Masters of Meereen occupied the red and orange benches. The men and women were veiled, and the men had brushed and lacquered their hair into horns and hands and spikes. The envoys from Yunkai were all in yellow and filled the box beside the king's, each of them with his slaves and servants. Meereenese of lesser birth crowded the upper tiers, more distant from the carnage. The black and purple benches, highest, were crowded with freedmen and other common folk. The sellswords had been placed up there as well, Alyce saw, their captains seated amongst the common soldiers.

"We're surrounded by Daenerys' old enemies in these seats," she muttered to Tyrion. The two sat behind with Reznak, Aggo, Rakharo, and Ser Jorah; the queen, king, and Dany's handmaidens sat at the forefront of their box. Barristan remained standing for now, though there was a seat for him beside Daenerys.

Tyrion glanced up at the Yunkai'i and the sellsword ranks. He nodded once, with a resigned frown. What he seemed to find an irritation, Alyce found almost intolerable. The Yunkai'i—the sellswords—the very people of Meereen—all potential enemies on every row above them leading to the exit. Her fingers fisted and her nails dug tiny half-moons into her palms. She felt a warm touch on her fist and looked down to see Tyrion's hand on hers. She slowly loosened her hand beneath his touch.

"We have no reason to believe peace would not be honored today. Everyone has come for sport and entertainment, the Yunkai and the Masters included."

His quiet murmur must have been just loud enough to reach Hizdahr's ears because the king turned to glance behind him at them with a small frown. She and Tyrion dropped the subject.

After a minute or two more, Hizdahr stood and raised his hands. " _Great Masters_!" The crowd quieted, though only somewhat. "My queen has come this day to show her love for you, her people. By her grace and with her leave, I give you now your mortal art. _Meereen_! Let Queen Daenerys hear your love!"

Ten thousand throats roared out their thanks; then twenty thousand, then all. They did not call her name, which few of them could pronounce. " _Mother_!" they cried instead in the old dead tongue of Ghis. They stamped their feet and slapped their bellies and shouted until the whole pit seemed to tremble. Alyce watched the queen from behind and slightly to the side as the sound washed over them. The skin was tight around the young woman's eyes, and her mouth was set into a forced neutrality. _She does not feel worthy of the tumult…or she does not love them back, these who are majority all previous owners of_ slaves, Alyce thought. Or _perhaps she knows it is not her they love at all, but their 'mortal art.'_

Reznak on Alyce's other side directly behind Daenerys leaned forward to exclaim to her, "Magnificence, hear how they love you!"

The tension around the young queen's eyes only grew tighter. "Jhiqui," she called, "water, if you would. My throat is very dry."

"Khrazz will have the honor of the day's first kill," Hizdahr told her. "There has never been a better fighter."

"Strong Belwas is better," insisted Strong Belwas.

Khrazz was Meereenese, of humble birth—a tall man with a brush of stiff red-black hair running down the center of his head. His foe was an ebon-skinned spearman from the Summer Isles whose thrusts kept Krazz at bay for a short time, but once he slipped inside the spear with his shortsword, only butchery remained. After it was done, Khrazz cut the heart from the man, raised it above his head red and dripping, and took a bite from it.

"Khrazz believes the hearts of brave men make him stronger," said Hizdahr. Jhiqui murmured her approval. "Ah," he continued, pleased. "Now comes the Spotted Cat. See how he moves, my queen. A poem on two feet."

The foe Hizdahr had found for the walking poem was as tall as Goghor and as broad as Belwas, but slow. They were fighting six feet from the queen's box when the Spotted Cat hamstrung him. As the man stumbled to his knees, the Cat put a foot to his back and around his head and opened his throat from ear to ear. The thirsty red sands drank his blood, the wind his final words.

The crowd screamed its approval, and Alyce found herself pleased by that particular outcome as well. She glanced at the cool and unhappy queen and reminded herself not to let the fact that the fighting entertained her show. _Daenerys is not a killer, not like this. Not like me. I can see the things there are to appreciate when a man fights for his life, wins, and slays his attacker. It is ageless, and plays to our deepest instincts. Forced, and put on like this for show, it is a bastardization. But still there are things to be learned and appreciated… Though in the end, it is senseless, forced murder, and of slaves, no less. That is all the queen is seeing._

"Bad fighting, good dying," said Strong Belwas. "Strong Belwas hates it when they scream." He had finished all the honeyed locusts. He belched and took a swig of wine.

Pale Qartheen, black Summer Islanders, copper-skinned Dothraki, Tyroshi with blue beards, Lamb Men, Jogos Nhai, sullen Baavosi, brindle-skinned half-men from the jungles of Sothoryos—from the ends of the world they came to die in Daznak's Pit.

"This one shows much promise, my sweet," Hizdahr said of a Lysene youth with long blonde hair that fluttered in the wind.

Tyrion could not help himself. He stated simply, "That hair will kill him."

He was proven exactly right when the Lysene's foe grabbed a handful, pulled him off-balance, and gutted him. In death he looked even younger than he had with blade in hand and Alyce found herself wincing.

"A boy," said Dany. "He was just a boy."

"Six-and-ten," Hizdahr insisted. "A man grown, who freely chose to risk his life for gold and glory. No children die today in Daznak's, as my gentle queen in her wisdom has decreed."

 _Six-and-ten is still a child,_ thought Alyce. _Though I did not know so at six-and-ten. We are all fools at such an age._ She knew Daenerys had tried to bar women from the fighting as well, but a warrior named Barsena Blackhair had protested that she had as much right to risk her life as any man, and Dany had relented.

It had been custom to sentence criminals to the pits; that practice the queen had agreed might resume, but only for certain crimes. Murderers and rapists would be forced to fight, and all those who persisted in slaving, but not thieves or debtors.

Beasts were still allowed, though. They watched an elephant make short work of a pack of six red wolves. Next a bull was set against a bear that left both animals torn and dying.

Seeing Alyce's expression during that fight, Tyrion observed, "You feel for the beasts but not the men?"

"Men murder one another always," she replied in a low voice, "but a bear and a bull fighting is unnatural. It's torture, not a competition. Still," she added, "I would trade their lives for some I have seen die today."

"The flesh is not wasted," said Hizdahr. "The butchers use the carcasses to make a healthful stew for the hungry. Any man who presents himself at the Gates of Fate may have a bowl."

"A good law," Dany said. "We must make certain that tradition is continued."

After the beasts came a mock battle, pitting six men on foot against six horsemen, the former with shields and longswords, the latter with Dothraki _arakhs_. The mock knights were clad in mail hauberks while the mock Dothraki had no armor. At first the riders seemed to have the advantage, riding down two of their foes, and slashing the ear off a third, but then the surviving knights began to attack the horses, and one by one the riders were unmounted and slain, to Jhiqui's great disgust. "That was no true _khalasar_ ," she said.

"These carcasses are not destined for your healthful stew, I would hope," Dany said as the slain were being removed.

"The horses, yes," said Hizdahr, "the men, no."

"Horsemeat and onions makes you strong," said Belwas.

A roar went up as Barsena Blackhair stode onto the sands, naked save for breechclout and sandals. A tall, dark woman of some thirty years, she moved with the grace of a panther. "Barsena is much loved," Hizdahr said as the sound swelled to fill the pit.

"Yes. She numbers among her fans our _imoa kajakthi_ ," replied Dany with a small smile, glancing over her right shoulder at Alyce.

Alyce had sat forward in her seat and was watching Barsena avidly. "A fearsome woman," she said. "Who challenges her?"

"Today she fights a boar," answered Hizdahr.

"His Grace could not find a woman to face her," Tyrion added under his breath to her, "no matter how impressive the purse."

The boar was a huge beast, with tusks as long as man's forearm and small eyes that swam with rage. Alyce wondered for just a moment whether the boar that had killed her sire Robert Baratheon had looked as fierce.

Daenerys must have looked apprehensive, because Reznak beside Alyce told her, "Barsena is very quick, Your Radiance. She will dance with the boar, and he will fall, you will see."

"She will bloody him every time he charges her and spin away each time," added Alyce. "He'll be awash with blood and exhausted before he falls, I think." Irri, Jhiqui, Hizdahr, and Reznak nodded their agreement.

"Boars are not bulls," Tyrion countered her gently. "They're cleverer animals. It may not go that way."

It began just as she and Reznak had said. The boar charged, Barsena spun aside, her blade flashed silver in the sun.

"She needs a spear," Ser Barristan said, commenting for the first time. He sounded a fussy grandsire, as Daario Naharis was always saying. "That is no way to fight a boar." Barsena was vaulting over the beast's second charge.

Her blade was running red, but the boar soon stopped. Alyce frowned, her eyebrows pulling tightly together.

Barsena shouted, edging closer to the animal and tossing her knife from hand to hand. The beast only backed away. The crowd grew restless at the inactivity. Barsena cursed and slashed at his snout, trying to provoke him—and succeeding. This time her leap came an instant too late, and a tusk ripped her left leg open from knee to crotch.

Alyce made a cry and stood as a moan went up from thirty thousand throats. Tyrion watched as her hand twitched toward her bow, then she glanced back at Barsena's crippling wound, and that hand dropped back to her lap. _Better dead than live unable to walk._ And she had moved with such grace… _A waste._ Clutching at her torn leg, Barsena dropped her knife and tried to hobble off, but before she had gone two feet, the boar was on her once again. Queen Daenerys turned her face away as a scream rang out across the sands.

…


	41. XII: Dragonflame

…

XII.

Dragonflame

" **T** o scream so loud hurts Strong Belwas in the ears," the eunuch said. He rubbed his swollen stomach, crisscrossed with old white scars. "It makes Belwas sick in his belly, too."

The boar buried his snout in Barsena's stomach and began rooting out her entrails. Alyce turned away, grimacing. Daenerys lifted her veil and let it flutter away. She looked pale and unsettled. She began to unwind her _tokar_ as well. The pearls rattled softly against one another as she unwound the silk.

" _Khaleesi_?" Irri asked. "What are you doing?"

"Taking off my floppy ears."

A dozen men with boar spears came trotting out onto the sand to drive the boar away from the corpse and back to his pen. The pitmaster was with them, a long, barbed whip in his hand. As he snapped it at the boar, the queen rose. "Ser Barristan, will you see me safely back to my garden?"

Hizdahr looked suddenly irritated. "There is more to come. A folly, six old women, and three more matches. Belaquo and Goghor!"

"Belaquo will win," Irri declared. "It is known."

"It is not known," Jhiqui said. "Belaquo will die."

"One will die, or the other will," said Dany. "And the one who lives will die some other day. This was a mistake."

"Strong Belwas ate too many locusts." There was a queasy look on Strong Belwas' broad brown face. "Strong Belwas needs milk."

Hizdahr ignored the eunuch. "Magnificence, the people of Meereen have come to celebrate our union. You heard them cheering you. Do not cast away their love."

"It was my floppy ears they cheered, not me. Take me from this abbatoir, husband."

"Sweet lady, no. Stay a while longer. For the folly, and one last match. Close your eyes, no one will see."

Alyce had maneuvered slowly around the chairs and, ignoring the king's entreaties, held out her arm for the queen. Ser Barristan also offered her a hand and she took the support of both of them as they began to escort her from the box.

Hizdahr rose. "This is not the time for—"

" _The Harpy_!" came a shout from sharp-eyed Ser Jorah. He drew his steel from its sheath as Barristan and Alyce followed his gaze. Seemingly at the sight of Daenery's attempt to exit, standing ahead of them about four levels and blocking the stairs and therefore queen's ascent, watchers of the games had donned the masks of the Sons of the Harpy. Men, women… Words were being hissed across the stands in the tongue of Old Ghis, and hearing them, more masks were coming out from nowhere. Too many. Strong Belwas gave a moan, stumbled from his seat, and fell to his knees.

Dread pooled cold and heavy in Alyce' gut.

" _Protect your queen_!" Ser Barristan cried. Alyce ripped off her veil and slung her quiver over her back as Tyrion exclaimed, "We need another exit! The stables and pits! Or we choose one staircase and cut our way up! Choose _now_!"

Neither Ser Barristan nor Jorah or the Unsullied captains with them seemed to have a suggestion. Daenerys only turned slowly, shocked, watching the Sons moving out of all levels and attempt to move down toward them, knives in hand. As they went, some Sons ignored the screaming and fleeing onlookers and some murdered as many as they could where they were. The pitmaster had frozen in shock whilst his spearmen had dashed for shelter. The boar went snuffling back to Barsena. Pahls streamed up the steps, clutching their _tokars_ and tripping on the fringes in their haste to get away.

"The Harpy has the high ground," Alyce called back, whirling this way and that. "But we could make it up one staircase if we called the Unsullied to us and—" She stopped midsentence to string and let fly to down a Son creeping too close to them. Unsullied had been posted at every entrance and level and they were killing as many as they could, but were outnumbered. The Sons of the Harpy were swarming like ants… _This was planned carefully, to murder Daenerys in this pit and take their final vengeance for the murdered Masters. It was the perfect venue, why did we not realize how easily—_ She sent two more arrows ripping through the flesh of two more Sons and then reached down to grip Tyrion's shoulder in her hand.

He looked up at her and they shared a tiny frozen moment of mirrored emotion. She broke their gaze as an Unsullied guard engaged a Son close to them with the shriek of steel on steel. "The last time I ordered you to stay close to me and keep safe, you ignored me," she growled to him.

"Well—"

" _Don't do it again_." She grunted and then focused on nocking and heaving her bowstring back, twice, thrice, four times, five… She was not quite able to keep them all from advancing, and Ser Barristan, Jorah, the high-ranking Unsullied with them, Aggo, Rakharo, and even Irri and Jhiqui with vicious shortblades in their small fists teamed up against those that reached them to dispatch them and protect Daenerys. Reznak and Hizdahr cowered near the edge of the box, ready to jump down toward the pit should the fight reach them. Strong Belwas was overcome with retching and utterly useless.

Alyce abandoned her bow and quiver when she ran out of arrows. She crossed her arms over her stomach, drew across her body her sword and dirk, and with a shout dispatched a masked Son Irri and Jhiqui were keeping at bay.

A strange and sudden shadow rippled across faces, steel, and sand.

The tumult and the shouting faltered as if a spell had been cast. Some still fought, but more froze and turned their eyes skyward.

Alyce did not look up.

She gazed instead down at the face of Lord Tyrion Lannister as he beheld a dragon with his own eyes for the first time.

His eyes, locked onto the creature above, shivered as if a heat wave were passing across them. He stood frozen in place with one hand half extending toward her. As he took a slow and deep breath in, his mouth opened.

A warm wind brushed their cheeks; there was the rushing of wings beating the air. Alyce moved her eyes from Tyrion's and looked.

Above them all the dragon turned, dark against the sun. He had been drawn by the noise and the blood. His scales were black, his eyes, horns, and spinal plates blood red. His wings stretched thirty feet at least from wingtip to wingtip, black as jet. He flapped them once as he swept back above the sands, and the sound was like a clap of thunder.

The boar raised his head, snorting…and flame engulfed him, black fire shot with red. Alyce felt the wash of heat forty feet away. Drogon landed on the carcass and sank his claws into the smoking flesh even as it still gave dying screams. As he began to feed, he made no distinction between Barsena and the boar.

"Oh, gods," moaned Reznak from the edge of the box.

"Your Grace!" Alyce shouted, brandishing her sword. "Dragonfire could clear an escape for us." She turned back toward a slowly advancing foe.

"I don't know if I can control him," came her answer, just loud enough to be heard. The young queen's voice cracked in a way Alyce had never heard it crack before.

Distracted as a Son rushed her, Alyce snarled and spun. All were engaged—Barristan, Jorah, Verlun an Unsullied captain, Aggo, Rakharo, Alyce. Missandei clutched Daenerys' hand. Jhiqui, her face bloody, stabbed a Son with a shriek, leaping on top of him with a knife in each hand when he fell.

Tyrion watched, his blood screaming, as another two Sons leapt down the steps toward Alyce while she was still engaged with another. She widened her slashes, driving them all further off, but she was losing ground. Tyrion bolted wide around and then rushed one mask, slashing with his razor-sharp dirk. He ducked a swing, slashed the man's calves, then sprang away. When he had dropped to his knees, Tyrion fisted his hair in his hand and raked his blade across his throat.

Finished, he whirled; behind him Alyce had led one of her foes into a feint, and as he watched, she skewered his chest with her favored dirk. It lodged there. Spinning as gracefully as a cat realigning itself with the ground as it falls, she evaded the other Son's thrust and pulled her other dirk from her belt as she whirled. She met his next swing with her shortsword and used her fresh blade to slice his abdomen open like a wide, wet mouth. She was wild and deadly and wondrous.

"To me!" she cried to him fiercely, teeth bared with exertion, and he obeyed. Thrusting her hands under his arms, she swung him back up into the raised box with Missandei and the queen. "Stay _here_ , you bastard!"

"Alyce!" He called her attention back to the fighting behind her, and she turned and shouted as she met an oncoming mask with a curved and deadly blade. Another met them; Alyce danced away, leading them away from the queen's box. She did not have as easy of a time of it with these two, but there was too much footwork, too much spinning—even with his razor-bladed knife, Tyrion knew he would not have been a help.

He had often wished as a child to have the legs and sword arm of his elder brother. But now as he watched the woman he lived for fight off killers who at the slightest advantage would spill her precious, irreplaceable blood, that wish inside him was as gripping and visceral as madness. To be unable to defend her, to sit in safety while she danced with death…it was like an axe in his chest.

He forgot how to breathe as one of her opponent's swords sparked as it met her metal plate. She recovered, only to be unfooted by the uneven and precarious stone steps beneath her. She went down.

" _No_!" the scream was ripped from his chest. The queen and her little scribe's hands were gripping his clothes—they would not let him start toward her. He clawed at their fingers.

Down on the stone, Alyce shifted her head expertly, and the Son's curved blade shrieked as it met only rock inches away from her face; not half a moment later he was flying from her with the force of her kick. She rolled, spun, and had her feet under her again to meet the second's slash. He was clumsier than the first. Her blades whipped like wind. He was wracked with bloody slashes before he finally collapsed.

Tyrion tasted salt; his tears of fear for her had run into his mouth. He swallowed with effort.

They were coming faster now—they had overcome the brave Unsullied that had guarded the levels and had no one to hinder them now as they leapt down steps toward the queen. Too many too fast.

"Your Grace," he gasped, breathless, whirling toward the queen. "Your Grace!" He looked up into her eyes and did not break that contact. "Without dragonfire, we will die. Approach him slowly. Do not break eye contact. Do not show fear or turn your back. Speak commandingly in Valyrian—"

Sons were swarming over the parapet to left and right of them. Verlun, Barristan, and Irri were shouting with alarm. A few masks had spears, and Daenerys' and Tyrion's eyes followed them as they swarmed toward her feasting dragon.

One man took it on himself to be a hero.

He took a running leap, shouting in Ghiscari, and sent his spear driving into the base of the dragon's long scaled neck.

Dany and Drogon screamed as one.

Drogon arched with a snarl of pain—his tail lashed, his head craned around, and he closed his jaws around his screaming attacker. The dragon lifted and shook him brutally, sending the hero off in two separate directions.

He roared, and a truly terrifying stream of fire blazed into the air.

At the sight and sound of it, Sons fled. The bravest stayed, but many and more ran. The very bravest took up spears as they rushed or circled the dragon in the pit.

"Your Grace—"

"Let me _go_!" She twisted from Ser Barristan's grip and vaulted over the low parapet. When she landed she lost a sandal but ran hard.

Now that the Sons of the Harpy were fleeing, Alyce was able to leap back up onto the box stage and she rejoined Tyrion at the edge of it. Missandei pressed herself against her side. Tyrion did not allow himself look at her—if he had, he would have thrown himself into her embrace. Alyce sheathed her dirk and fisted his shirt in her hand at his shoulder. He put his hand on hers and gripped so tightly it was to the point of pain.

Ser Barristan had vaulted over the parapet and was running to his queen. All the others were engaged in fighting the last of the Sons who had not fled.

Another thrown spear wedged itself in Dragon's back, wobbling as the dragon moved. Smoke rose from his wounds. When spearmen closed in, he bathed them with dragonflame. His tail lashed sideways and caught the pitmaster creeping up behind him, breaking him in two. Another attacker slashed toward his eyes until Dragon tore his belly out. "Drogon," Daenerys Targaryen screamed. " _Drogon_."

His head turned. Smoke rose between his teeth. He beat his wings again, sending up a choking swarm of orange sand. Daenerys coughed. Drogon snapped, the black teeth closing a mere foot from her face.

Missandei made a half-scream of alarm, and Alyce's body had jerked with the same. Out on the sands, Daenerys stumbled backwards over the pitmaster's corpse and fell onto her backside.

Tyrion forcibly grabbed onto Alyce's clothes as she surged forward and he growled, " _No_! You can't help her. If she cannot control them, we will lose them both. If she cannot control him, we never had her—we never had _anything_."

Alyce looked down at him, her chest heaving. " _Tyrion_ —!"

"You must stay here. You _must_."

Drogon roared. The sound filled the pit. He craned his neck back to Daenerys on the ground and opened his jaws wide, a foot from her face, hissing. She did not look away.

Ser Barristan was circling around to the right and shouting. " _Me_! Try _me_! Over here! _Me_!"

The dragon's eyes smoldered dark and red as they considered the girl lying helpless before him. She looked small and fragile and frightened. Alyce felt Tyrion's hand travel up the side of her thigh and she met it with hers. She gripped his hand very tightly. The tiny queen scrabbled in the sand, pushing against the pitmaster's corpse. Her hand reemerged from the sands with a whip. Drogon roared again, the sound so loud it shook the air.

Dany hit him.

" _No_ ," she screamed, swinging the lash. The dragon jerked his head back. " _No_ ," she screamed again. "NO!" The barbs raked along his snout.

Dany brought her feet under her and whipped the lash at his scaled belly. His long serpentine neck bent like an archer's bow. With a _hissssss_ , he spat black and red fire down at her. Dany darted underneath the flames, swinging the whip and shouting, "No, no, no! Get DOWN!"

Her beautiful silver hair had caught, and it disintegrated in flaming wisps, but her scalp remained smooth and unhurt.

Drogon's answering roar was fear as well as fury. His wings beat once, twice…

…and folded. The dragon gave one last hiss and stretched out flat upon his belly. Black blood flowed from his wounds. Daenerys Targaryen climbed his thigh, grabbing scales and spines for handholds, and vaulted onto his back. She ripped out the spear lodged in his neck. The point was half-melted, the iron red-hot and glowing. She flung it aside. Drogon twisted under her, his muscles rippling as he gathered his strength. Sand swirled as his wings kicked it up, obscuring them from view for a moment.

Then there was again a noise like thunder as the black wings cracked, and then with mighty leaps of his back legs and great heaves of his wings, the dragon climbed the air, with the queen on his back. The beatings of those wings created a storm of dust that swirled and raged, erasing the pit and the steps and everything from few. Alyce and Tyrion choked and coughed, pressing their clothes to their mouths.

Ser Jorah and Verlun leapt into the dust storm to rout the last of the Sons from the pit. Alyce could hear the boots of more Unsullied swarming in from other places in the city and from the pyramid, having finally received word of the ambush. Alyce knew that if Drogon had not appeared, their band would not have been able to keep the queen alive until this relief arrived.

Jhiqui was moaning with pain somewhere in the dust behind them. Missandei was murmuring soothing instructions. Steel sounded from far away as Jorah found scattered Sons. Unsullied boots pounded. They swarmed around Tyrion and Alyce and moved off out into the sands to aid Jorah and their captains. They wore black masks over their mouths to keep out the dust, but their eyes must have been stinging terribly, as Alyce's were.

She clutched at Tyrion and lowered herself slowly down to the stone box floor, their arms entangled madly, as the dust and sand swirled blindingly around them. She buried her face in his warm neck, sand in her nose.

Tyrion was making a strange noise that she realized after a moment was choked laughter. She held him to her and he shook against her chest.

"What—why—?" she managed through the grit in her mouth.

"It's all real," he murmured. " _She's_ real." He took a breath, but it turned into a cough, and his body was wracked with coughing against her chest.

"Real and _gone_ ," croaked Alyce.

"She'll be back," he said, his hands finding her face. The swirling sands had blotted the sky and walls seemingly from existence. He pressed his forehead to her cheek. "Ah, love. Alyce… Are you alright? Are you bleeding?"

She was, on her thigh and back. "No," she lied. She held him fiercely. "Tyrion, we all could have…"

"Yes, sweet."

"You must let me die first defending you, if such a thing hap…" She coughed hard. "… _happens again_."

"So many demands."

Their mouths gritty and dry, he kissed her. "I love you," he breathed, half a rasp. He clutched her. "Gods help me, Alyce."

Tears veiled her eyes and she kissed him just as desperately. A mailed fist gripped her heart, squeezing until it hurt. She whispered very quietly, "And I love you."

Tyrion laughed again, shaking against her, and coughed. And laughed. And kissed her.

…


	42. XIII: Queensguard

…

XIII.

Queensguard

" **Y** ou were the queen's man," said Reznak mo Reznak. "The king desires his own men about him when he holds court."

 _I am the queen's man still_ , thought Ser Barristan Selmy. _Today, tomorrow, always, until my last breath, or hers._ He refused to believe that Daenerys Targaryen was dead.

Perhaps that was why he was being put aside. _One by one, Hizdahr removes us all._ Strong Belwas lingered at the door of death in the temple, under the care of the Blue Graces…though Selmy half expected they were finishing the job those honeyed locusts had begun. Skahaz Shavepate had been stripped of his command. The Unsullied had withdrawn to their barracks. Jhogo, Daario Naharis, Admiral Groleo, and Hero of the Unsullied remained hostages of the Yunkai'i. Aggo and Rakharo and the rest of the queen's _khalasar_ had been dispatched across the river to search for their lost queen. The Lannister turncloak, Lord Tyrion, had been removed from the council, and he and Alyce kept to the room Daenerys had given them and kept low profiles. Even Missandei had been replaced; the king did not think it fit to use a child as his herald, and a onetime Naathi slave at that. _And now me_.

There was a time when he might have taken this dismissal as a blot upon his honor. But that was in Westeros. In the viper's pit that was Meereen, honor seemed as silly as fool's motley.

And this mistrust was mutual.

 _Poison_. It had been the first word out of the mouths of Alyce and her Lannister lord when they had found him again as the sands and dusts settled. They had repeated to him Hizdahr's entreaties to his queen in the box: _Those are very tasty. You ought to try a few yourself…there are sweet and hot at once…_ And yet the king never touched one himself. _What else but poison could have done such to Belwas?_ the two had argued, sand still rough in their throats. _And what else but the locusts?_

Lannister was levelheaded about the implication, but Alyce had wanted to gut the king and his closest men and ask the questions after all lay dead. She seethed like a poker and had removed herself rather than linger within a court she now despised.

Ser Barristan could not blame her. Hizdahr zo Loraq might be his queen's consort, but he would never be his king.

"If His Grace wishes for me to remove myself from court…"

"His Radiance," the seneschal corrected. "No, no, no, you misunderstand me. His Worship is to receive a delegation from the Yunkai'i, to discuss the withdrawal of their armies. They may ask for…ah…recompense for those who lost their lives to the dragon's wroth. A delicate situation. The king feels it will be better if they see a Meereenese king upon the throne, protected by Meereenese warriors. Surely you can understand that, ser."

 _I understand more than you know._ "Might I know which men His Grace has chosen to protect him?"

Reznak mo Reznak smiled his slimy smile. "Fearsome fighters, who love His Worship well. Goghor the Giant. Khrazz. The Spotted Cat. Belaquo Bonebreaker. Heroes all."

 _Pit fighters all._ Ser Barristan was unsurprised. Hizdahr zo Loraq sat uneasily on his new throne. It had been a thousand years since Meereen last had a king, and there were some amongst the old blood who thought they might have made a better choice than him. Outside the city sat the Yunkai'i with their sellswords and their allies; inside were the Sons of the Harpy.

And the king's protectors grew fewer every day. Hizdahr's blunder with Grey Worm had cost him the Unsullied. When His Grace had tried to put them under the command of a cousin, as he had the Brazen Beasts, Grey Worm had informed the king that they were free men that took commands only from their mother. As for the Brazen Beasts, half were freed-men and the rest were shavepates whose true loyalty might still be to Skahaz mo Kandaq. The pit fighters were King Hizdahr's only reliable support against a sea of enemies.

"May they defend His Grace against all threats." Ser Barristan's tone gave no hint of his true feelings; he had learned to hide such back in King's Landing many years ago.

"His _Magnificence_ ," Reznak mo Reznak stressed. "Your other duties shall remain unchanged, ser. Should this peace fail, His Radiance would still wish for you to command his forces against the enemies of our city."

 _He has that much sense at least._ Belaquo Bonebreaker and Goghor the Giant might serve as shields, but the notion of either leading an army into battle was so ludicrous that the old knight almost smiled. "I am His Grace's to command."

"Not _Grace_ ," the seneschal complained. "That style is Westerosi. His Magnificence. His Radiance. His Worship."

 _His Vanity would fit better._ "As you say."

Reznak licked his lips. "Then we are done." This time his oily smile betokened dismissal. Ser Barristan took his leave, grateful to leave the stench of the seneschal's perfume behind him. _A man should smell of sweat, not flowers._

The Great Pyramid of Meereen was eight hundred feet high from base to point. The seneschal's chambers were on the second level. The queen's apartments, and his own, occupied the highest step. _A long climb for a man my age_ , Ser Barristan thought as he started up. He had been known to make that climb four or five times a day on the queen's business, as the aches in his knees and the small of his back could attest. _There will come a day when I can no longer face these steps, and that day will be here sooner than I would like._ Before it came, he must make certain that at least a few of his lads were ready to take his place at the queen's side. _I will knight them myself when they are worthy, and give them each a horse and golden spurs._

He thought briefly of Alyce Waters. _In her runs the blood of the Baratheon boys._ Despite her sex, she was one of the most adroit students he had ever trained, and he was proud of her. _But she has had more years under the tutelage of Varys the Spider than me._ She could never truly be trusted, and because of her gender, could never be a knight.

The royal apartments were still and silent. Hizdahr had not taken up residence there, preferring to establish his own suite of rooms deep in the heart of the Great Pyramid where massive brick walls surrounded him on all sides. Mezzara, Miklaz, Qezza, and the rest of the queen's young cupbearers—hostages in truth, but both Selmy and the queen had grown so fond of them it was hard for him to think of them that way—had gone with the king, whilst Irri and Jhiqui had departed with the other Dothraki. Only Missandei remained, a forlorn little ghost haunting the queen's chambers at the apex of the pyramid. Occasionally Alyce would give her company, but she was not there.

Ser Barristan walked out onto the terrace. The sky above Meereen was the color of corpse flesh, dull and white and heavy, a mass of unbroken cloud from horizon to horizon. The sun was hidden behind a wall of cloud. It would set unseen as it had risen unseen that morning. The night would be hot, a sweaty, suffocating, sticky sort of night without a breath of air. For three days rain had threatened, but not a drop had fallen. _Rain would come as a relief. It might help wash the city clean._

From here he could see four lesser pyramids, the city's western walls, and the camps of the Yunkishmen by the shores of Slaver's Bay, where a thick column of greasy black smoke twisted upward like some monstrous serpent. _The Yunkishmen burning their dead,_ he realized. _The pale mare is still galloping through their siege camps._

The Great Masters, the Sons of the Harpy, the Yunkai'i—Ser Barristan could almost hear them all whispering and telling one another that his queen was dead. Half of the city believed it, though as yet they did not have the courage to say such words aloud. _But soon, I think._ Lord Tyrion insisted it was not so—that the queen had been _riding_ the dragon, not at its mercy. Barristan believed he had seen the same through stinging eyes before the creature's wingbeats had reduced the air to sandstorm. Through a veil of tears he had watched the beast fly from the pit, its great wings slapping at the shoulders of the bronze warriors at the gates. _But could she control its direction? Could she survive alone?_

The rest he had learned later. Beyond the gates above the giant pit had been a solid press of people. Maddened by the smell of dragon, horses reared in terror, lashing out with iron-shod hooves. Food stalls and palanquins alike were overturned, men knocked down and trampled. Spears were thrown, crossbows were fired. The dragon had loosed some fire as well, as it left the city. It had taken the rest of the day and most of the night for the Brazen Beasts to gather up the corpses.

Ser Barristan felt very tired, very old. _Where have all the years gone?_ Of late, whenever he knelt to drink from a still pool, he saw a stranger's face gazing up from the water's depths. When has those crow's feet first appeared around his pale blue eyes? How long ago had his hair turned from sunlight into snow? _Years ago, old man. Decades._

Yet it seemed like only yesterday that he had been raised to knighthood, after the tourney at King's Landing. He could still recall the touch of King Aegon's sword upon his shoulder, light as a maiden's kiss. His words had caught in his throat as he spoke his vows. At the feast that night, he had eaten ribs of wild boar, prepared the Dornish way with dragon peppers, so hot they burned his mouth. Forty-seven years and the taste still lingered in his memory, yet he could not have said what he had supped on ten days ago if all seven kingdoms had depended on it. _Boiled dog, most like. Or some other foul dish that tasted no better._

Not for the first time, Ser Barristan wondered at the strange fates that had brought him here. He was a knight of Westeros, a man of the stormlands and the Dornish marches; his place was in the Seven Kingdoms, not here upon the sweltering shores of Slaver's Bay. _I came to bring Daenerys home._ Yet he had lost her, just has he had lost her father and her brother. _Even Robert. I failed him too._

Perhaps Hizdahr was wiser than he knew. _Ten years ago I would have sensed what Daenerys meant to do. Ten years ago I would have been quick enough to stop her._ Instead he had stood befuddled as she leapt into the pit, shouting her name, then running uselessly after her across the sands. Small wonder Daario Naharis mocked him as Ser Grandfather. _Would Daario have moved more quickly if he had been beside the queen that day?_ Selmy thought he knew the answer to that, though it was not one he liked.

Drogon was gone from the city, last seen over the Skahazadhan, flying north. Of Daenerys Targaryen, no trace had been found. Some swore they saw her fall. Others insisted that the dragon had carried her off to devour her.

 _They are wrong._ Ser Barristan knew no more of dragons than the tales every child hears, but he knew Targaryens. Daenerys had been riding that dragon, as Aegon had once ridden Balerion of old.

"She might be flying home," he told himself aloud.

"No," murmured a small voice behind him. "She would not do that, ser. She would not go home without us."

Ser Barristan turned. "Missandei. Child. How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long. This one is sorry if she disturbed you." She hesitated. "Skahaz mo Kandaq wishes words with you."

"The Shavepate? You spoke with him?" That was rash. Skahaz had been outspoken in his opposition to the queen's marriage, a fact Hizdahr had not forgotten, and the enmity ran deep between them. After Hizdahr had given the command of the Brazen Beasts to his cousin, Skahaz had been named Warden of the River, with charge of all the ferries, dredges, and irrigation ditches along the Skahazahdan for fifty leagues, but the Shavepate had refused that ancient and honorable office, as Hizdahr called it, preferring to retire to the modest pyramid of Kandaq. _Without the queen to protect him, he takes a great risk to reach out to me._ And if Ser Barristan were seen speaking with him, suspicion might fall on the knight as well. Hizdahr was suspicious of Lord Tyrion for that reason; before the queen had left them, the dwarf lord had met often with the Shavepate.

"Is he here? In the pyramid?"

"When he wishes. He comes and goes, ser."

 _Yes. He would._ "Who told you he wants words with me?"

"Alyce told this one, ser."

That stopped Barristan short. _What is she thinking?_ "And Lord Tyrion too, I do not doubt." He misliked the taste of this. It smelled of deceit, of whispers and lies and plots hatched in the dark, all the things he'd hoped to leave behind with the Spider and Lord Littlefinger and their ilk. _Lannister brings his plotting with him across the Narrow. Daenerys should not have raised him so high so quickly._ All because of her trust in Alyce.

Barristan Selmy was not a bookish man, but he had often glanced through the pages of the White Book, where the deeds of his predecessors had been recorded. Some had been heroes, some weaklings, knaves, or cravens. Most were only men—quicker and stronger than most, more skilled with sword and shield, but still prey to pride, ambition, lust, love, anger, jealousy, greed for gold, and all the other failings that afflicted lesser mortals. The best of them overcame their flaws, did their duty, and died with their swords in their hands. The worst…

 _The worst were those who played the game of thrones._

"Where is she?"

"This one does not know, ser. She was here this morning and said these things."

"If you see her before I do this evening, tell her I wish to speak with her. What else did she say?"

Missandei glanced at the door and moved closer to Ser Barristan in order to lower her voice. "Her suspicion, ser… She says Shahaz mo Kandaq has proof of it."

Selmy could still hear Hizdahr urging his queen to try the honeyed locusts. _Those are very tasty…sweet and hot…_ Yet he never touched so much as one himself.

"She said he will be on the third level, after dark, amongst the other masks," the girl murmured.

Ser Barristan had hated those masks from the start. _No honest man should ever have to hide his face._ He rubbed his mouth. "Tell her that I will speak with him."

"This one will tell her, ser."

"Make certain you two are not overheard." It would not serve to have the wrong Brazen Beast hear of this.

"This one understands." Missandei turned as if to go, then paused a moment and said, "It is said that the Yunkai'i have ringed the city all around with scorpions, to loose iron bolts into the sky should Drogon return."

Barristan had heard that too. "It is no simple thing to slay a dragon in the sky. In Westeros, many tried to bring Aegon down over many battles. None succeeded."

Missandei nodded. It was hard to tell if she was reassured. "Do you think they will find her, ser? The grasslands are so vast, and dragons leave no tracks across the sky."

"Aggo and Rakharo are blood of her blood…and who knows the Dothraki sea better than the Dothraki?" He squeezed her shoulder. "They will find her if she can be found." _If she still lives._ There were other _khals_ that prowled the grasslands, horselords with _khalasars_ whose riders numbered in the tens of thousands. But the girl did not need to hear that. "You love her well, I know. I swear, I shall keep her safe."

The words seemed to give the girl some comfort. _Words are wind, though_ , Ser Barristan thought. _How can I protect her when I am not with her?_

Barristan Selmy had known many kings. He had been born during the troubled rein of Aegon the Unlikely, beloved by the common folk, and had received his knighthood at his hands. Aegon's son Jaehaerys had bestowed the white cloak on him when he was three-and-twenty, after he slew Maelys during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. In that same cloak he had stood beside the Iron Throne as madness consumed Jaehaerys' son Aerys. _Stood, and saw, and heard, and yet did nothing._

But no. That was not fair. He did his duty. Some nights, Ser Barristan wondered if he had not done that duty too well. The keeping of his vows had grown hard in the last years of King Aerys' rein. He had seen things that pained him to recall, and more than once he wondered how much of the blood was on his own hands. If he had not gone into Duskendale to rescue Aerys from Lord Darklyn's dungeons, the king might well have died there as Tywin Lannister sacked the town. Then Prince Rhaegar would have ascended the throne, mayhaps to heal the realm. Duskendale had been his finest hour, yet the memory still tasted bitter on his tongue.

 _Three dead kings. And Rhaegar, who would have made a finer king than any of them. Elia and her children… Aegon just a babe, Rhaenys with her kitten._ Yet he still lived, who had sworn to protect them. And now it was possible that Prince Aegon had been saved all those years ago. And now Daenerys, his shining child queen. _She is not dead. I will not believe it._

Selmy took his simple supper out onto the queen's terrace that night and ate it as the sun went down. Through the purple twilight he watched fires waken one by one in the great stepped pyramids, as the many-colored bricks of Meereen faded to grey and then to black. Shadows gathered in the streets and allies below, making pools and rivers. In the dusk, the city seemed a tranquil place, even beautiful. _That is pestilence, not peace,_ the old knight told himself with his last sip of wine.

He did not wish to be conspicuous, so when he was finished with his supper he changed out of his court clothes, trading the white cloak of the Queensguard for a common hooded brown cloak. He kept his sword and dagger. _This could still be some trap._ Tyrion had acted quickly enough in defense of Daenerys when the Sons showed themselves, but there could always be other motives behind his mismatched eyes, and Skahaz had lived and plotted in Meereen long before the queen's arrival. Barristan had little trust in Hizdahr and even less in Reznak mo Reznak. The seneschal could well be part of this, trying to lure Alyce and himself into a secret meeting so he could sweep them up and charge them with conspiring against the king. _If the Shavepate speaks treason, I should arrest him. Hizdahr is my queen's consort, however little I may like it. My duty is to him, not Skahaz._

Or was it?

The first duty of the Kingsguard was to defend the king from harm or threat. The white knights were sworn to obey the king's commands as well, to keep his secrets, counsel him when counsel was requested, serve his pleasure and defend his name and honor. Strictly speaking, it was the king's choice whether or not to extend Kingsguard protection to others, even those of royal blood. Some kings thought it was right and proper to dispatch Kingsguard to serve and defend their wives and children, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins of greater and lesser degree, and occasionally even their lovers, mistresses, and bastards. But others preferred to use the household knights and men-at-arms for those purposes, whilst keeping their seven as their own personal guard.

 _If the queen had commanded me to protect Hizdahr, I would have had no choice but to obey._ But Daenerys Targaryen had never established a proper Queensguard even for herself nor issued any commands in respect to her consort. _The world was simpler when I had a lord commander to decide such matters_ , Selmy reflected. _Now I am the lord commander and it is hard to know what path is right._

Queen Daenerys had married Hizdahr—had chosen him. It seemed the right thing would be to show loyalty to the man his queen chose. _But what if she chose wrong? 'Sweet and hot' he said, but never touched a one._ Daenerys' safety overruled everything.

Two Brazen Beasts stood guard outside the entrance to the main third level hall, masked as bear and vole.

"All quiet, ser," the bear told him.

"Keep it so." It was not unknown for Ser Barristan to walk around the halls at night to make sure the pyramid was secure nor for him to be found on the third level. Occasionally he visited Lord Tyrion's and Alyce's chambers. He walked there now and saw faint candlelight flutter the dim shadows between sconces where their chamber door stood cracked open.

As he approached, another Brazen Beast detached itself from the other end of the corridor where it had been standing guard and made toward him. He was clad in pleated black skirt, greaves, and muscled breastplate. "A cat?" said Barristan quietly when he saw the brass beneath the hood. When the Shavepate commanded the Brazen Beasts, he favored a serpent's-head mask, imperious and frightening.

"Cats go everywhere," replied he familiar voice of Skahaz mo Kandaq. "No one ever looks at them. Let us inside." He slipped toward the door of Tyrion and Alyce's room and disappeared into it. Barristan Selmy followed with caution and shut the door behind him.

Inside he found Alyce standing beside a divan on the far side of the room in which Lord Tyrion sat. Skahaz joined him at their small, dim sitting area. Only a few candles were lit. Alyce looked grim and impatient, not bothering to conceal her emotions behind her usual cool mask. Lord Tyrion's expression was more difficult to read.

"If Hizdahr should learn that you are here…" Selmy directed quietly to Skahaz.

"Who will tell him? Marghaz? Marghaz knows what I want him to know. The Beasts are still mine. Do not forget it." The Shavepate's voice was muffled by his mask, but Selmy could hear the anger in it. "I have the poisoner."

"Who?"

"Hizdahr's confectioner. His name would mean nothing to you. The man was just a catspaw. The Sons of the Harpy took his daughter and swore she would be returned unharmed once the queen was dead. Belwas and the dragon saved Daenerys. No one saved the girl. She was returned to her father in the black of night, in nine pieces."

"Why?" Doubts gnawed at him. "The Sons had stopped their killing. Hizdahr's peace—"

"—is a sham. Not at first, no. The Yunkai'i were afraid of our queen, of her Unsullied, of her dragons. This land has known dragons before. Yurkhaz zo Yunzak had read his histories, he knew. Hizdahr as well. Why not a peace? Daenerys wanted it, they could see that. Wanted it too much. She should have marched to Astapor." Skahaz moved closer. "That was before. The pit changed all. Daenerys gone, Yurkhaz dead. In place of one old lion, a pack of jackals. Bloodbeard…that one has no taste for peace. And there is more. Worse. Volantis has launched its fleet against us."

"Volantis." Selmy's sword hand tingled. _We made a peace with Yunkai. Not with Volantis._ "You are certain?"

Lord Tyrion was the one who answered. "It's certain. The Wise Masters know, and so do their friends—the Harpy, Reznak, Hizdahr. The king plans to open the city gates to the Volantenes when they arrive. All those Daenerys freed will be enslaved again and even some who were never slaves at all."

"You may end your days in a fighting pit, old man," said Skahaz. "Khrazz will eat your heart."

Alyce shot him an irritated look. She knew as Skahaz did not that Selmy would fall upon his sword before his life ended in a fighting pit. His head was pounding. "Daenerys must be told."

"Find her first," Skahaz snapped. "We cannot wait for her return. I have spoken with the Free Brothers, the Mother's Men, the Stalwart Shields. They have no trust in Loraq. We must break the Yunkai'i. But we need the Unsullied. Grey Worm will listen to you."

Alyce spoke for the first time, directing her words at Barristan. "Grey Worm knows of my suspicions. But I wait for your lead on this."

"You did not wait for my lead before you spoke with Skahaz."

"That was talking. This is action. Something _must_ be done, ser, or everything Daenerys worked for will be lost. We will be overwhelmed."

"Grey Worm must be spoken to," agreed Lord Tyrion.

 _They speak treason. Conspiracy._ "Do not overstep yourself, Lannister," Ser Barristan levelled at the dwarf. Over Tyrion's reply, he asked the Shavepate, "To what end?"

"Life," Skahaz answered. "We must strike before the Volantenes arrive. Break the siege, kill the slaver lords, turn their sellswords. The Yunkai'i do not expect an attack. I have spies in their camps. The sickness and disarray is worse every day. Discipline has gone to rot."

"I've been in the camps myself," added Tyrion, "and heard what only a slave hears. The lords are drunk more oft than not, feasting, and telling each other of the riches they'll divide when Meereen falls. Bloodbeard and the Tattered Prince despise each other. No one expects to fight."

"Daenerys signed a peace," Ser Barristan said. "It is not for us to break it without her leave."

"And if she is dead?" demanded Skahaz. "What then, ser? I say she would want us to protect the city. Her children."

Her children were the freedmen. _Mhysa, they call her. All those whose chains she broke._ The Shavepate was not wrong. Daenerys would want her children protected. "What of Hizdahr? He is still her king. Her husband."

"Her poisoner," Tyrion countered.

"Where is your proof?"

"The crown he wears," the dwarf replied. "The throne he sits. That is all he needed from Daenerys. Once he had it, why share the rule?"

 _Why indeed?_ It had been so hot down in the pit. He could still see the air shimmering above the scarlet sands, smell the blood spilling for the men who had died for their amusement. And he could still hear Hizdahr, urging his queen to try the honeyed locusts. _Those are very tasty…sweet and hot…_ "This confectioner. I want to question him myself. Alone."

The Shavepate crossed his arms against his chest. "Is it that way? Done, then. Question him as you like."

Alyce turned back toward him fully. "He intends to open the doors to the Volantenes, Ser Barristan. Is that not by itself enough to show that he is not the queen's man? He would put her people back into slavery. This city should remain Daenerys' while she is gone. We should be able to do that much at least for her."

 _To protect her, even while I am not at her side._ "No harm must come to Loraq until it can be proved that he had some part in this."

"Why do you care so much for Hizdahr, old man?" asked Skahaz. "If he is not the Harpy, he is the Harpy's firstborn son."

"All I know for certain is that he is the queen's consort."

Skahaz made a quiet hissing noise. "No harm will come to Hizdahr till his guilt is proved. But when we have the proof, I mean to kill him with my own hands. I want to pull his entrails out and show them to him before I let him die."

 _No,_ the old knight thought. _If Hizdahr conspired at my queen's death, I will see to him myself, but his death will be swift and clean._ The gods of Westeros were far away, yet Ser Barristan Selmy paused for a moment to say a silent prayer, asking the Crone to light his way to wisdom. _For the children. For the city. For my queen._

"I will talk to Grey Worm," he said.

…


	43. XIV: A Shield Serves

…

XIV.

A Shield Serves

" **C** utting through the Yunkish and sellsword lines would cost too many Unsullied."

Alyce gazed hard at a column of bookshelves without seeing it while Tyrion sat across from her and scratched on a parchment. She continued, "There are better ways. Poison their wells. Send people out to slay the masters and commanders in one sweep."

"Hardly honorable," Tyrion replied, dipping his pen in ink again.

"Hang honor," she muttered. "It too quickly gets you killed—look at the Starks. And if it is a choice between victory and honor, only fools choose the latter. Gallant fools, but _fools_."

"A lack of honor can poison your future—look at the Freys," countered Tyrion mildly. "Your name loses its worth in the eyes of men."

"I hardly think the Seven Kingdoms will care if Daenerys has to fight her way out of some eastern city with tactics that were perhaps slightly less than ethical. No one in Westeros gives a fig about the east. But if we're not willing to poison armies, the second best thing would be to keep the gates barred, slay all the remaining Grand Masters and all loyal to them in this thrice-cursed hell of a city, and let the dragons grow large while we wear out our food stores. Then, we cut our way out with dragonfire and make for Westeros."

"The way you think about war reminds me of someone."

"Who?"

"My father."

Alyce sighed and sat back in her chair. "I like efficiency."

"The best path is not always the straightest one."

"The straightest path is as the raven flies, they say. Dragons too have wings."

Tyrion smiled a little at her wit. He placed his pen in the ink pot. "We will clear this buggering royal swamp of its vipers, but in the background, through small plays of influence. Not grand ignoble killings."

Alyce crossed her arms. They had discussed this before and she did not expect to convince Tyrion or herself of anything; she wished to air out her frustration.

He and Skahaz had been feeling out the noble families even before Daenerys departed, sorting Hizdahr's allies from his enemies, and Daenerys' enemies from those they could bribe and befriend. Skahaz's influence and Tyrion's cunning were the reason Hizdahr sat so uneasily on his throne. He did not understand even a fraction of the powers moving against him in the shadows, however, or heads would roll. Actually, they would not, because the Brazen Beasts would turn on Hizdahr and Alyce and Barristan would slay his pit-fighter guards, leaving him at their mercy. He was only still alive because he could control the Sons of the Harpy, and Skahaz and Tyrion did not yet know from where they drew their commands or how many they still numbered. Grey Worm had Unsullied watching a number of suspects—men who had escaped the fighting in the pit but had conspicuous wounds. They would use these Sons to learn more about the Harpy.

"He hasn't spoken with Grey Worm yet," she murmured, "but he will. He heard Hizdahr's urging and saw the effects of poison the same as we did."

Tyrion glanced toward the direction of the library door, but they were utterly alone. They had been here on other days before for hours, and not a single soul had come in. "Soon Skahaz and I will have everything in place to dispatch Hizdahr's allies, the most dangerous masters, and, when we finally get in deep enough, the head of the Harpy," he said. "Then Daenerys' ruling council will have complete control of how to deal with the Volantene threat, whether that is through warfare or continuing siege or something else altogether."

Alyce's eyes were on his. "I've said it before," she murmured. "Ser Barristan needs to be in on it all."

Tyrion was shaking his head before she had finished. "He doesn't have the mind or the stomach for this sort of dirty work."

"There is no reason anyone should doubt his mind or stomach," Alyce shot back, though without heat. "You just don't want to be opposed."

"You forget that your Ser Barristan's opinion of me is lower than dirt. If he learned the extent of the work I've been doing to help his queen, I believe he would run me out of the pyramid."

"A rather paradoxical response."

"People are rarely logical."

"He's the closest to a Queen's Hand we have. Decisions must go through him, else it approaches disloyalty."

"Ser Barristan is a great solider and a great Kingsguard," Tyrion argued. "He takes orders and vows and he sees them through. He is _not_ a leader. Nor a font of original thought… The closest to a Queen's Hand we have, Alyce, is not Selmy—it is you and I."

Alyce gazed at him. _That may be true, but neither Ser Barristan nor Daenerys might see it that way._ She asked him, "Would do you think the queen would have to say about it? Would she want you making the decisions in her absence?"

"If she understood my intentions."

"She cannot read your mind, and she has every right to doubt them, as does Barristan. He warned you not to overstep, Tyrion. You mustn't."

Tyrion's eyes were in hers. "I hear you," he said after a moment. "But we cannot allow Meereen to fall. We dance a razor's edge."

"No. We dance a dragon's fang." She stood.

"Stay."

She turned halfway back toward him and gave him a rather smoky look. "Give me reason."

He smiled, very slightly. "Because I can only fully concentrate when you are beside me. Because it has been all day since I have kissed you. Stay."

Gently pushing his books and parchment to either side, careful of his fresh ink, she mounted the wooden table. Tyrion climbed up to stand upon his chair and touch her. First her face, running his hands across her cheeks and jaw and lips. He raked his hand through her lengthening hair and teased behind her ears with his fingertips.

Kissing and tonguing her ear and neck, he gripped her side and teased a nipple with his other hand through her dress. She made a contented humming noise. She did not make to touch him in response, which amused him. Last night she had been full of orders and pushiness in their bed. She had commanded, and he had followed those commands. But now she was playing pliant.

She allowed herself to be the subject of his affections, seemingly concerned only with her own pleasure. Tyrion did not mind. Her noises and sighs were more than enough to arouse and tease him.

She did not allow him to lay her down upon the table, but she did spread her legs so he could push up her skirt and stroke with his fingers until he could feel her arousal through her smallclothes.

With a very swift and sudden movement, Alyce gripped him in her arms and thumped him down onto his back on the library table. He barked out a short surprised laugh before her mouth claimed his, and she kissed him deeply, with a flow to her tongue that made his hips rock with its rhythm. He groaned into her mouth.

As she kissed him, one of her hands worked at his laces, her fingers leaving trails of fire in their wake as they brushed his erection through his breeches. He trembled with want of her as she wrenched his pants and undershorts down and out of her way. Her own smallclothes were around one of her ankles already, and the skirt of her dress fluttered down over both their hips as she dropped her body onto his to the hilt with one decisive motion. He shouted with pleasure toward the dusty high ceiling.

Her knees supporting her on either side of his body, she controlled every motion. She began slowly, her rocking taking him deep and letting him go again reluctantly. The moving was intimate and their eyes held each other's. Tyrion kissed her skin.

But slowly, as if she could not help it, her thrusting gained speed. She lifted a leg out from under her and held herself up above him as her hips writhed back and forth, sliding him out and in deliciously.

Tyrion was helpless. His arms lay above his head on the table and he stared up at her, groaning, pleasure coursing through his bloodstream to his toes and fingertips. Alyce was using her own fingers to give the nub above her entrance what it craved. He gazed up at her, powerlessly caught up in a tide. "Alyce, I'm—"

"No." Her hand darted forward.

" _Augh_!" he exclaimed in pain. She had pinched him to prevent him from orgasm. He rubbed his side gingerly, giving her a reproachful look, but she was fully ignoring him, using his body to chase her own pleasure. Within moments, his pain was forgotten as he closed his eyes to revel in her sliding up and back and taking him the way she wanted.

He bit his tongue to keep himself back as she built and built. She let her head fall back and she moaned and whimpered in the way he had come to crave and adore. His eyes dropped to her fingers flicking and rubbing between her legs and his eyes fluttered closed at how arousing he found the sight, his own head tilting back.

He sucked in a breath through his nose as Alyce moved her upper body down to kiss him, deep and hard. Their tongues danced and his groan cut off into half a whimper as he felt her thighs tremble…felt her body begin to contract…listened to her breathing change and cut-off moans escape her throat as release seized her. He gazed at her expression—the release so sharp it looked like pain—and let her stuttered rocking take him with it.

His release emptied him and made him feel boneless and light-headed.

"Alyce…"

She made a vague groan in response, breathing in long sighs. Slowly, she lifted off of him and laid herself backwards on the tabletop, her head right next to his stack of parchment paper. Her eyes were closed, her features relaxed with satiation. Tyrion sat up and ran his hands over her skin. Sex made Alyce's skin feel fever-warm to his fingers. She gave little sigh and smiled.

He said softly, "I wasn't able to lift off or away."

She did not appear concerned he had spent himself inside of her. "I have never found myself with child before," she murmured. "And if I did, I know what herbs to swallow to put a stop to it. It may make me sick for a few days, but it is nothing that cannot be amended."

Tyrion watched her, her words falling strangely hard on his ears.

"Do you think you will ever want children?" he asked her.

"I would if I could beget them the way a man can. A good hard fuck and the rest of the work is someone else's." She smirked. "You don't know how good you have it."

He kissed her shoulder, trying to push away his sudden welling of feeling. If he had children, he would want them to have this woman for a mother. But he knew she would not be pleased to be a wife and lady. _I likely am not meant to father children. It is just as well. No one wants a dwarf for a sire. I would not be able to pick my children up past a certain age, nor protect them physically._

She saw his eyes were far away and kissed his skin until he was back with her. Alyce hitched her undershorts back up, and then she draped her arms and legs around him on the table. When his own pants were laced back up as well, he leaned against one of her propped legs.

"What do you want to tell me?" she asked him after a few minutes of companionable quiet.

"Why do you think I want to tell you something?"

She simply kissed one of his fingers in response. "Tell me."

Tyrion looked away. After a moment of hesitation, he began, "I stopped you from trying to save Daenerys from Drogon. Tell me why I did so."

She scowled. "I know why. If she couldn't control him, she was no dragon queen at all. It served as a test." She muttered, "Although if he girl had died, I would not have been so understanding about that particular train of logic."

Tyrion rubbed one of her hands in both of his. "Sometimes people must go into danger to discover who they are. To discover if they have the powers or the knowledge they hope they do."

Alyce's eyes narrowed. "And the purpose of this lecture is?"

"Alyce, you have sworn to protect me from danger. But sometimes something is necessary and needed, even though it is dangerous. It is my hope…that you can trust enough in my discernment to put up your sword when I ask it of you. To allow me control of my decisions and my life, though they may put me in harm's way." He hesitated, then reached into a pocket to pull out a folded and softened parchment. It looked as though he had been carrying it around for days.

Alyce snatched it from him and smoothed it open with one movement of her hands. Her eyes flew across the lines of Tyrion's own script.

 _To the cockless master of whisperers… I, Tyrion of House Lannister… if I should perish while unchaining the queen's dragons, the decision was of my own volition—_

"No," Alyce said immediately, dropping the parchment from her eyes, her expression dark and dangerous.

Tyrion's mouth was set. "Alyce, I am a man, not a dog. You must allow me to make such decisions for myself. Such a letter exempts you from any blame Varys might attach to it should I—"

"You whoreson fool," she snapped. "You think it is because of _duty_ that I would not let you walk into dragonfire?" She fisted his clothes in her hands drew him against her roughly. She wrapped herself around him and cupped his neck in a hand to nuzzle her mouth against his forehead. She pressed her forehead to his.

Tyrion held fistfuls of her dress in his own hands and he squeezed his eyes shut. "I… Regardless, I ask you to put up your sword. Respect me, as your charge to serve. I am not a child."

"No, you're not. Children are faster on their feet. Tyrion—"

"Hold your tongue," he interrupted with steel in his tone. "I need not be reminded of my limitations. Alyce, if you do not relent, you destroy my trust in you and yours in me, because I _will_ find a way, whether that is tying you up while you sleep or slipping away when you think me elsewhere. Do not push me to such lengths."

Alyce's face darkened further at this, like a dangerous summer storm cloud. She was silent for a moment, then said quietly, "You saw what Drogon did to the men that approached him in the pit. I cannot… I will not watch you die." She held him tighter as she spoke, as if in reflex, as if imagining it. He touched her face.

"If I cannot win their trust, my knowledge is of little use to Daenerys."

Alyce made an angry hiss. "They're _animals_. They may not like your particular _smell_ at that moment. They might be _hungry_. Just because they don't want anyone but their mother near them does not mean your knowledge would not be _useful_ to her."

"They will be well fed beforehand. I have thought about this every day since Daenerys took to the sky. My choice will not change."

He could feel her anger and frustration and fear in the tightness of her muscles.

"Sweetling…"

"Stop," she growled, a snap. Her muscles were like taut ropes. She pushed some of the anger and emotion out of her face and her words slid through her teeth. "It will be as you wish. Because I want to be there. And if I opposed you, you would find another way. Without me."

The idea of locking him up for a month or so until such delusions of grandeur had left him had a certain appeal. But he was needed, and that was not a possible recourse.

"Tonight, then," he murmured.

Alyce extricated herself from him and stood with her back to him and her arms around her middle. She buried her fear and fury and replied with an even voice, "As you say."

…


	44. XV: Trial by Fire

…

XV.

Trial by Fire

 **T** he underpyramid was even cooler than the main levels, and the air was stale. Tyrion Lannister and Alyce Waters walked down past the dungeons into the very lowest levels where beasts were kept in hugely tall cells.

Elephants groaned at one another as they passed, and a lion paced its cage, wondering if their presence promised food. Their torches cast black doubles of their motions onto the walls and floor, the stones beneath their feet and above their heads larger than a man. They did not speak and their footfalls and the echoes of their footfalls were the only sounds.

It was not unheard of for Tyrion to go down to view the dragons since Daenerys had departed, and when they met the Unsullied guards at the huge iron doors, the guards opened them for them.

"Have they been fed?" Alyce asked in Meereenese.

"Just half an hour ago," one answered. "A sheep apiece."

She nodded and followed Tyrion inside. They stood above a long flight of thick stone steps descending into darkness. Somewhere in that darkness, Viserion and Rhaegal hunkered, chained, but still deadly. Alyce raised her torch and lit the sconces along the staircase wall. The bones on the floor of the pit were deep and the walls and floor were black and grey with ash. As she stepped down a few steps to light one more sconce, the circle of firelight touched a long, scaled tail. That tail swept across the ground like some enormous snake and a dragon rustled. A graveling growl sounded from the black.

Her pulse was pounding as if she were about to fight some terrible adversary. Every instinct in her body screamed at her that she was in danger _,_ and her muscles tensed for flight.

She stepped slowly backwards back up the few steps down she had taken, her eyes riveted on the blackness. She reached for Tyrion, grasping fistfuls of him, and lowered herself on the steps beside him.

"This is mad. Don't. Don't, Tyrion. Gods, you fucking bastard."

He murmured soothingly, "Stay here, so matter that happens. You would be worse than useless down there. Look at you. They likely can already smell the fear and the fight in you. Stay here."

" _The Others take you_."

"I obey you when we fight men. You will obey me when we confront dragons. Stay here." His eyes softened. "Kiss me."

"Fuck you." Her words had no heat; her spine was weak with cold fear and desperation. Dragons were fire and death. Nothing else. She did not know what she could say to stop him. She had already thought through all recourses. She knew she had to allow him to make these choices with his own life. But she hated him for it.

She hated him even more when he took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. She hated that it felt like a goodbye—hated that it could be a goodbye.

She was shocked by the fierceness of her own feelings. She trembled. Tears sprang from her eyes and she wiped them roughly away with her fingers. She tried to shut that part of her down, to grow cold and greet these decisions with emotionless logic, but her desperation to preserve the life of this man was too wild to be turned aside. She mastered herself only barely. _He is just a man. Just a man. Do your duty. Put up your sword as he wants. No one will be able to fault you._

 _There will be no hysterics. No begging. He has made a choice. He must follow it through and pay the consequences. If his life is the consequence, I will pay as well. So be it._ She grit her teeth, aching as if an iron saw was eating down through her breast.

"Go," she whispered.

His eyes traced back and forth between hers for just a moment. "I love you,'' he murmured.

She struggled with herself. "Not enough to think better of this."

"Alyce."

"Go before I forget all your reasons and carry you bodily from this fucking madness."

He gently moved away. Motionless, Alyce let him move into the light that pooled down the steps. As Tyrion descended, he lit the sconces. The dragons rustled from the far end of the pit.

Alyce sensed viscerally the last step before he was out of the range at which she could spring to his defense. Not that anything she could do would be a defense against dragonfire. Dragonflame burned like grease and oil, so hot and sticky that some claimed it would continue burning even if plunged underwater.

She felt unable to rise to her feet. She sat and trembled and watched from above as he took slow steps into the dimness. He looked so small, so unsuited to the task of confronting dragons—so unsuited to _any_ task. He was stunted, his hands like a child's around his torch. Alyce wanted to laugh and weep in great sobs. She pressed her fist against her mouth.

Shadows moved, became spikes and folded wings. Chains clanked together and slithered across the floor. Viserion shifted into the light, making an unearthly groaning growl that vibrated the stone, challenging Tyrion's approach. Alyce tensed like a bowstring, too afraid for him even for tears. Viserion's mouth opened and dragonflame churned in its throat and eyes.

Tyrion made a graceful and subservient motion, half bowing, one foot spread back, and one palm up, backing off slightly. The effect of the movement was immediate; the dragon also brought its head back slightly from its challenge and considered him, still growling. Tyrion had cast his eyes down, but now he brought them back up. His expression was concentrated, intent, and reverent. From her perch above, Alyce could only barely make out his words.

"Great Viserion. I am a friend to your mother. I am a friend to you."

He spoke in High Valyrian, his eyes on the dragon's and his free hand raised in peace. He moved as Viserion moved, like a slow, strange dance, keeping a steady and appropriate distance. He was still more than close enough for the creature to easily roast him where he stood, or to extend its neck like a snake and close its thick fangs around him. But the dragon still considered him, and did not appear as hostile as a moment before.

The fangs of its open mouth and its horns gleamed in the firelight. Its enormous eyes flashed and shimmered with orange and yellow, eyeing him with more far more intelligence than dog or horse.

"When I was a child," Tyrion told it, in a voice of honest confession, moving around toward its side, "an uncle asked what gift I wanted for my nameday. I begged him for one of you. 'It wouldn't even have to be a big dragon,' I told him. It could be little…like me." He bent slightly, slowly placing the torch down horizontally on the stone. It remained where he placed it, still glowing and providing light.

"Everyone laughed," he continued softly, "like it was the funniest thing they had ever heard." He was beyond the beast's head now. It had allowed him to pass it. "My father told me the last dragon had died a century ago. I cried myself to sleep that night."

Tyrion's hand was already raised, but now he extended and touched Viserion's side as if placing his hand on something precious. Alyce did not breathe. Tyrion's head dropped slightly, as if overcome by emotion. Then he lifted it again and said, "But here you are." He lifted his other hand up to clasp the thick iron pin of Viserion's neck chain.

In one motion, he pulled it entirely free, and took a number of smooth steps away as the chains clanked to the stone. Viserion shook himself like a cat, rolling his shoulders and head, now free of the weight of chains.

Alyce stifled a scream with her fist as she saw Rhaegal's snout move to within a foot of the back of Tyrion's head. Backing away from Viserion, Tyrion had moved perilously close to Rhaegal. The green dragon opened its mouth, a deep and metallic groaning growl sounding from its throat. But no fire showed between its teeth; instead, Rhaegal turned its head to push its neck and the iron clamp close to Tyrion.

Alyce could only stare. _He was right. They think. They reason._

Rhaegal held its neck there, waiting for him. Tyrion took a moment to stare also, then he moved forward and heaved the thick iron pin out from its chains as well. Rhaegal weighed its head experimentally as Tyrion backed slowly away, his eyes downcast again.

Rhaegal seemed content to turn away and curl up in a pile of bones, but Viserion's eyes followed Tyrion up the stairs. It made to follow, its walk both leonine and lizard, muscles rippling and folded wings sliding like leather against its body. Tyrion turned slowly and held up his hand.

" _Umbagon_ ," he commanded in Valyrian, without heat or fear. _Stay. Wait._ " _Viserion._ _Umbagon, l_ _ē_ _kia." Stay, brother._

Viserion obeyed only reluctantly. It rumbled from deep in its chest. Its eyes warned of things to come should it have to wait too long. Those eyes flickered up the steps to Alyce and her blood froze. Smoke rose from the white dragon's nostrils. She had no love of dragons and she could see in those eyes that it knew so.

Alyce quaked. Tyrion had made it look a simple thing, but precious few people could have accomplished what he just had. She certainly could not have. She was made for sword and shield, for rocky ocean shores and tavern scraps, for sex, poems, and deceits, but not for dragon taming.

Their need to put an iron door firmly between them and the newly unbound dragons prevented any relieved embraces. The Unsullied guards had heard the clanking noises and stood uncertainly with the door cracked when they reached it.

"What has happened?" one asked them in Meereenese as they exited.

"Lord Tyrion has released the dragons from their chains," Alyce answered honestly. The soldiers were bolting the doors behind them as she spoke. _They would have learned soon enough._ "Take care now when they are fed."

The soldiers' eyes were wide and they glanced at each other.

"Are they still contained? Does Ser Barristan know of this?"

"They are contained for now," Tyrion answered in his rough Meereenese, which had been growing better over the weeks. "But they will likely begin digging their way out of the stone eventually. Dragons are not meant to be chained. They grow weak and stunted if caged."

"The dragons must not escape," one of the soldiers said quickly. "We cannot lose the Mother's children."

"They will not break through for weeks. By then, Daenerys will be found, and they will not stray far. They will always come home to their mother. Goodnight."

Tyrion led Alyce away from the two upset soldiers. One of them would go and report of their actions. But Tyrion had prepared Grey Worm for this days ago, mentioning that the dragons ought to be unchained. Ser Barristan Selmy's displeasure was their largest hurdle, but Alyce could not concern herself with this at the moment.

Tyrion was unharmed.

He had faced two dragons and even _touched_ one and escaped alive.

Their bedchamber was too far to go. On the fifth level, Alyce broke their walk back upward in silence by turning, pushing Tyrion into a dark corridor alcove, and sitting so she could yank him down onto her lap. She held him quietly; she did not weep again. She simply pressed him against her and breathed in the scent of his hair. If he murmured things to her, she did not hear them. She only wanted to hold him tightly.

By the seventh level, Tyrion's legs were beginning to fail him, and Alyce hoisted him up onto her back and shoulders, his legs to either side of her face, the way children would play chicken in the waist-deep water of the bay. He had to duck through doorways, but it was the least strenuous way to carry him.

When they reached their rooms, she lowered him back to the floor and bolted their door. It was in the very black of night, and she felt inordinately tired. She stripped bare and slipped into their bed. Tyrion watched her, keeping his tongue still for once. His eyes were apprehensive and Alyce imagined he dreaded her anger. But there was no hot iron inside of her stomach, nor fire. She was drained, and simply wanted the comfort of the soft animal of his body against hers.

When he joined her in bed, she wrapped him up in her arms and lay still, saving words for the morning.

…

Tyrion Lannister trailed his fingertips down the side of Alyce's face that was not hidden in the pillow.

His heart beat strangely. That she was still angry with him he did not doubt. Her silence last night spoke to it. But she had brought him against her beneath the bedclothes with surrender and tenderness. She had held him fiercely.

He was grateful for it. These days he needed the comfort of her body around his in the night like he had never needed anything else before. In her arms, he slept soundly, as he had not in all his years previous. In her arms, worries and nightmares fell away.

He feared her anger, but he knew this had not been enough to make her hate him. He had known he would have either ended up dead or correct in his estimations. Either way, she would not quite be able to hate him.

He stroked her face with his hand, brushing some of her lengthening raven hair away from her forehead and eyes. Her skyblue eyes opened to his.

The morning was early and pink. Tyrion traced imaginary patterns on her cheek.

She sighed, shifting closer and tightening her arms. The intense and even warmth of one asleep saturated her skin still, though now that she was awake it would bleed away. She gently kissed his eyebrow, his nose, his temple, beside one of his eyes and sighed again.

"Are you speaking to me yet?" he queried softly.

"Mm. I suppose I am, yes."

"Alyce…I'm so sorry for your fear."

She was silent and her body had grown still. After a moment, her muscles loosened around him again. "You are a brilliant, brave, lunatic fool of a man," she said, with the smallest hint of humor in her eyes. "I am relieved you did not die of dragonfire."

"As it happens, as am I." He was holding her face in his hands, brushing her cheeks with her thumbs. His heart glowed hot with love of her.

"I want you," she said, deep hunger in her eyes.

Tyrion blinked. "Now?"

"Now." She rose to one elbow and swiftly yanked him down away from the pillows with her arm that was already beneath him. He was still somewhat erect from his usual morning hardness, and grew more so inside of her mouth. Her tongue swirled around him only twice and then she threw a leg athwart his hips and took him inside of her.

His mind was still catching up to these events as she took her pleasure, wrapped tightly around him, her waist thrusting out a patient rhythm as if it were the most delicious drum. A groan escaped him as she thrust gentle fingers into his hair and pressed his body tightly against up hers with one arm beneath him.

After a minute, she shifted and bent her back to gaze down at him; she kept that eye contact more intently than she had before as she made love to him. Sometimes their lovemaking felt like joining, sometimes it felt like honoring, or taking, or claiming, or praying. This felt like _re_ claiming. Relief and amazement translated into acute hunger.

One of Alyce's legs was resting bent back on itself at the knee beside his waist and thigh and the other was extended up even past his head. She was always trying out new angles. This one seemed to please her well, and she finally took her eyes off his to tilt her head back and gasp and sigh. There was no rush; it always took him longer to climax in the mornings for some reason, and there had been no teasing to preempt this.

She came twice above him to his satisfaction, and then she rolled and reversed their positions. Both of them came more easily when controlling their own rhythm. Tyrion groaned and sighed as he took her, and Alyce watched him with a strange ache in her eyes. She nodded often, sometimes closing her eyes with pleasure. Her eyes when they were open traced over his face, his hair, his chest. Her hands fisted in the bedclothes.

Tyrion gazed at her as he thrust. She and he solved their frustrations and worries with sex; they spoke of their love and they claimed reassurances with it. As he built to release and need rushed through his veins, he understood her sudden " _Now_." He understood her ache.

He pulled out of her body and spent himself on her stomach with a rolling groan. She wiped them both off with one of the cloths they kept beside the bed and tucked him back into her arms.

"Tyrion," she whispered.

"I'm here," was his answer.

"You are incredible."

He considered making a cheeky comment about prowess in bed, but he could hear in her voice that his lovemaking was not to what she referred. He pressed his forehead against hers, gratitude to have such a woman to hold and to turn to making him feel weak. No one else in his life had ever said such a thing to him. No one had ever seen in him what she saw.

"Perhaps I may have songs in me yet," he murmured quietly.

"My love, I will sing them."

He made a soft sound that was half a laugh and half a sob and brought her face to his to kiss her hard.

…

When dawn came fully and they were half-dressed, a pounding came on their bedchamber door.

"Open this," ordered Ser Barristan's angry and impatient deep voice. "We will have words about your actions last night."

Tyrion looked to Alyce, who was swiftly finishing dressing herself. She belted on her weaponry and shoved her large feet into her boots.

"Your actions were yours only and so will the consequences be," she told him shortly. He realized then that she meant this all along to be his punishment.

She swung open the door for the old knight. Alyce saw dull anger in Ser Barristan's eyes, but not murder, nor the sort of fury that might hazard Tyrion's health or limb. She stepped aside. "Have at him, ser." And she left him to his scolding.

…


	45. XVI: Mummer's Show

…

XVI.

Mummer's Show

" _ **A**_ _ll kneel for His Magnificence Hizdahr zo Loraq, Fourteenth of That Noble Name, King of Meereen, Scion of Ghis, Octarch of the Old Empire, Master of the Skahazadhan, Consort to Dragons, and Blood of the Harpy_ ," roared the herald. His voice echoed off the marble floor and rang amongst the pillars.

Alyce Waters was swathed in a brown cloak, but she could reach into the fold of it and touch her fingers to the hilt of her shortsword if she wished to. No blades were allowed in the presence of the king save those of his protectors, so it seemed as though she still counted amongst that number. No one had tried to take it from her, at least.

Ser Barristan Selmy still wore his handsome longsword as well, despite his dismissal. Like hers, it hid currently beneath his white cloak. The end of the scabbard could still be glimpsed occasionally when he moved.

Daenerys Targaryen had preferred to hold court from a bench of polished ebony, smooth and simple, covered with the cushions Ser Barristan had found to make her more comfortable. King Hizdahr had replaced her bench with two imposing thrones of gilded wood, their tall backs carved into the shape of dragons. The king seated himself in the right-hand throne with a golden crown upon his head and a jeweled scepter in one pale hand. The second throne remained vacant.

 _The important throne_ , thought Alyce. _No dragon throne can replace a dragon no matter how elaborately it's carved._

To the right of the twin thrones stood Goghor the Giant, a huge hulk of a man with a brutal, scarred face. Alyce's swordhand tingled just to look at him. To the left was the Spotted Cat, a leopard skin flung over one shoulder. Back of them were Belaquo Bonebreaker and the cold-eyed Khrazz.

She knew all four had killed a great many men and knew their share of tricks, but it was one thing to best a foe when they come heralded by horns and drums in a pit and quite another to know a hidden killer before they can strike. She had studied the movements of all these men. She knew the Spotted Cat she would be a fool to engage alone, but the other three had large enough weaknesses for her to hold her own if such a thing were called for. She held them in contempt. They were without education or subtlety, and as for their loyalty—they were little better than sellswords.

Tyrion Lannister stood on a chair beside her so he could better see the proceedings. She knew he hated this court and this travesty as she did, but like her, his face was a mask of cool courtesy.

The hall was as crowded as Alyce had ever seen it. It thrummed to the sound of a hundred low voices, echoing off the pillars and the marble floor. It made an ominous sound, angry. It reminded her of the sound of a hornet's nest before all the hornets came boiling out, and on the faces in the crowd she saw anger, grief, suspicion, fear. She trailed her right middle fingertip along the length of the concealed dagger she kept on the inside of her left arm and shifted her body to feel the comfortable weight of her other weapons.

Strangely, the most notable faces to Alyce were those that were missing from the assembly: Missandei, Belwas, Grey Worm, Aggo and Rakharo, Irri and Jhiqui, Daario Naharis. In the Shavepate's place stood a fat man in a muscled breastplate and lion's mask, his heavy legs poking out beneath a skirt of leather straps—Marghaz zo Loraq, the king's cousin, the new commander of the Brazen Beasts, or so he thought. Alyce knew otherwise. Her contempt for Marghaz was fuller and rounder than hers for the pit fighter guards; the man fawned on his superiors, acted harshly to his inferiors, and was blind, boastful, and too proud by half. She had known his like in King's Landing. They were pestilence more than they were men.

Two score Brazen Beasts stood between the pillars, torchlight shining off the polished brass of their masks. Skahaz mo Kandaq had not mentioned whether he would be secretly in attendance here today or not, but Alyce suspected he was one of those many masks.

Hardly had the king's new herald called the court to order than the ugliness began. One woman began to wail about a brother who had died at Daznak's Pit, another of the damage to her palanquin. A fat man tore off his bandages to show the court his burned arm, where the flesh was still raw and oozing. And when a man in a blue-and-gold _tokar_ began to speak of Harghaz the Hero, the first man to spear Drogon, a freedman behind him shoved him to the floor. It took six Brazen Beasts to pull them apart and drag them from the hall.

"Quiet!" Reznak mo Reznak was pleading. "Please! I will answer if you will only…"

"Is it true?" a freedwoman shouted. "Is our mother dead?"

"No, no, no," Reznak screeched. "Queen Daenerys will return to Meereen in her own time in all her might and majesty. Until such time, His Worship King Hizdahr shall—"

"He is no king of mine," a freedman yelled.

Men began to shove at one another. " _The queen is not dead!_ " the seneschal proclaimed. "Her bloodriders have been dispatched across the Skahazadhan to find Her Grace and return her to her loving lord and loyal subjects. Each has ten picked riders, and each man has three swift horses, so they may travel fast and far. Queen Daenerys shall be found!"

A tall Ghiscari in a brocade robe spoke next, in a voice as sonorous as it was cold. King Hizdahr shifted on his dragon throne, his face stony as he did his best to appear concerned but unperturbed. Once again his seneschal gave answer.

Alyce half tuned out Reznak's oily words. It was that, or grow to hate the perfumed creature more. She spied at the rear of the hall the Dornish prince and his two companions and ground her jaw. _The fools still have not heeded our well-meant advice. Still they linger. Martell does not realize the danger—Daenerys was his only friend here, and she is gone._ Even worse than lingering unseen was to linger and show up at court where they could be remembered and noted.

"Martell is here, the damned fool," she muttered to Tyrion.

His eyes found the princeling at the back of the hall as she spoke. He sighed.

She added moodily, "If Hizdahr has him killed, all hope of an alliance with the Dornish goes up in flames. He is only further endangering his own cause. What in all the hells does he hope to accomplish?"

"I don't have a guess there," Tyrion murmured. "Perhaps he simply cannot accept failure." He paused, then added, "The boy glances more often at me than before. I am not sure why."

Alyce had not noticed that. She watched the prince until he did indeed steal a glance toward Lord Tyrion. When he saw her gaze, his eyes flicked away.

"That's odd." She narrowed her eyes.

"He is harmless."

Behind the prince, Ser Gerris Drinkwater was whispering something to Yronwood. Ser Gerris was all his prince was not; tall and lean and comely, with a swordsman's grace and a courtier's wit. Alyce did not doubt that many a Dornish maiden had run her fingers through his sun-streaked hair. But wit was not wisdom, and Alyce was inclined to think Yronwood the man of true steel between the two. She had known men like Gerris before—too pleasant to be true. _False coin._

Whatever he was whispering must have been amusing, for his big bald friend gave a sudden snort of laughter, loud enough that the king himself glanced toward the Dornishmen. When he saw the prince, Hizdahr zo Loraq frowned.

Alyce Waters did not like that frown.

Heavy boots sounded on the steep stone steps at the back of the hall. The Yunkishmen had come. Three Wise Masters led the procession from the Yellow City, each with his own armed retinue. One slaver wore a _tokar_ of maroon silk fringed with gold, one a striped _tokar_ of teal and orange, the third an ornate breastplate inlaid with erotic scenes. The sellsword captain Bloodbeard accompanied them with a leathern sack slung across one massive shoulder and a look of mirth and murder on his face.

 _No Tattered Prince,_ Alyce noted. _No Brown Ben Plumm._

Reznak mo Reznak wormed his way forward. "Wise Masters, you honor us. His Radience King Hizdahr bids welcome to his friends from Yunkai. We understand—"

"Understand this." Bloodbeard pulled a severed head from his sack and flung it at the seneschal.

Reznak gave a squeak of fright and leapt aside. The head bounced past him, leaving spots of blood on the purple marble floor as it rolled until it fetched up against the foot of Hizdahr's dragon throne. Up and down the hall, Brazen Beasts lowered their spears. Goghor the Giant lumbered forward to place himself before the king's throne, and the Spotted Cat and Khrazz moved to either side of him to form a wall. Alyce's hand was on her sword hilt, loosening her weapon in its scabbard. She looked from face to face—Bloodbeard, Hizdahr, Ser Barristan.

Bloodbeard laughed. "He's dead. He won't bite."

Gingerly, the seneschal approached the head and lifted it delicately by the hair. "Admiral Groleo."

Alyce looked to the throne, expecting the command to cut down Bloodbeard and the rest. It did not come.

Hizdahr sat frozen, a man transfixed. The dead man stared upwards reproachfully. His beard was brown with caked blood, but a trickle of red still leaked from his neck. From the look of him, it had taken more than one blow to part his head from his body. Alyce felt her blood growing hot, pounding. Her hand still gripped her sword hilt. _The admiral was a good man. He did not deserve such an end. He had a wife back in Pentos. Children, grandchildren._

In the back of the hall, petitioners began to slip away. One of the Brazen Beasts ripped up his hawk's mask and began to spew up his breakfast.

"This," King Hizdahr said at last, "this is not…we are not pleased, this…what is the meaning of this…this…"

Alyce had never thought so little of him as she did in that moment. _Even King Jaehaerys, considered weak by many, would have ordered these men seized and imprisoned for such insult._

The slaver in the maroon _tokar_ produced a parchment. "I have the honor to bear this message from the council of masters." He unrolled the scroll. "It is here written, ' _Seven entered Meereen to sign the peace accords and witness the celebratory games at the Pit of Deznak. As surety for their safety, seven hostages were tendered us. The Yellow City mourns its noble son Yurkhaz zo Yunkaz, who perished cruelly whilst a guest of Meereen. Blood must pay for blood_."

 _A farce_. The other slavers did not mourn old Yurkhaz—they gladly would have trampled him themselves. _Hizdahr cares nothing for Groleo._

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan called out. "If it please you to recall, the noble Yurkhaz died by happenstance. He stumbled on the steps as he tried to flee the dragon and was crushed beneath the feet of his own slaves and companions. That, or his heart burst in terror. He was old."

"Who is this who speaks without the king's leave?" asked the Yunkish lord in the striped _tokar_ , a small man with a receding chin and teeth too big for his mouth. "Must the lords of Yunkai attend to the natterings of guards?" He shook the pearls that fringed his _tokar_.

Hizdahr zo Loraq could not seem to look away from the head. Only when Reznak whispered something in his ear did he finally bestir himself. "Yurkhaz zo Yunkaz was your supreme commander," he said. "Which of you speaks for Yunkai now?"

"All of us. The council of masters."

The king found some steel. "Then all of you bear the responsibility for his breach of our peace."

The Yunkishman in the breastplate gave answer. "Our peace has not been breached. Blood pays for blood, a life for a life. To show our good faith, we return three of your hostages." The iron ranks behind him parted. Three Meereenese were ushered forward, clutching at their _tokars_ —two women and a man.

"Sister," said Hizdahr stiffly. "Cousins."

Alyce and Tyrion shared a weighty look. _They return Loraq's kin, but none of Daenerys' loved ones. There is trust between Loraq and the masters._ Suddenly this entire proceeding seemed a horrid mummer's show. _This all might have even been planned between them._

"The admiral was a man of the sea," Ser Barristan reminded him. "Mayhaps Your Magnificence might ask the Yunkai'i to return his body to us, so we may bury him beneath the waves?"

The toothy lord waved a hand. "If it please Your Radiance, this shall be done. A sign of our respect."

Reznak cleared his throat noisily. "It seems that Her Worship Queen Daenerys gave you…ah…seven hostages. The other three…"

"The others shall remain our guests," announced the Yunkish lord in the breastplate, "until the dragons have been destroyed."

A hush fell across the hall. Alyce did not allow her cool façade to waver, but inside she snarled. _It is all a ruse, to give him and the masters all reason to destroy the dragons, Daenerys' only true claim to power. They plan to open the doors to the Volantene, and they would want the dragons dead before they did._

 _Hizdahr shall die for this,_ she decided.

One part of Tyrion's excuse to Ser Barristan after he had unchained Viserion and Rhaegal had been that the dragons were safer freed. She was grateful now for such foresight.

Murmurs, mutters, whispered curses, and whispered prayers—the hornets were stirring in the hive again. "The dragons…" said Hizdahr.

"…are monsters, as all men saw in Daznak's Pit. No true peace is possible whilst they live."

Reznak replied, "Her Magnificence Queen Daenerys is Mother of Dragons. Only she can—"

Bloodbeard's scorn cut him off. "She is gone. Burned and devoured. Weeds grow through her broken skull."

A roar greeted those words. Many began to shout and curse. Others stomped their feet and whistled their approval. It took the Brazen Beasts pounding the butts of their spears against the floor before the hall quieted again.

Alyce watched Bloodbeard and the other Yunkishmen. _Bloodbeard came to sack a city and this peace has cheated him of his plunder. He wants to start bloodshed._

Hizdahr zo Loraq rose slowly from his throne. "I must consult my council. This court is done."

" _All kneel for His Magnificence Hizdahr zo Loraq, Fourteenth of That Noble Name, King of Meereen, Scion of Ghis, Octarch of the Old Empire, Master of the Skahazadhan, Consort to Dragons, and Blood of the Harpy_ ," the herald shouted. Brazen Beasts swung out amongst the pillars to form a line, then began a slow advance in lockstep, ushering the petitioners from the hall.

Ser Barristan touched Alyce's arm. "I am going to speak with the prince to counsel him once more to leave," he said in a low voice.

"May I go with you?" she asked.

He nodded once, absently. Tyrion at her side, Alyce followed Ser Barristan to the Dornishmen as the prince and his companions lingers, waiting for the press to lessen before beginning to make their way toward the steps.

The old knight strode across the hall, his long white cloak rippling behind him. He caught them at the top of the steps. "Your father's court was never half so lively," Drinkwater was japing.

"Prince Quentyn," Selmy called. "Might I beg a word?"

Alyce and Tyrion hung back. The Martells had no love for Lannisters.

Quentyn turned. "Ser Barristan. Of course. My chambers are one level down."

"It is not my place to counsel you, Prince Quentyn…but if I were you, I would not return to my chambers. You and your friends should go down the steps and leave."

Prince Quentyn stared. "Leave the pyramid?"

"Leave the city. Return to Dorne."

The Dornishmen exchanged a look. "Our arms and armor are back in our apartments," said Gerris Drinkwater. "Not to mention most of the coin that we have left."

"Swords can be replaced," said Barristan. "I can provide you with enough coin for passage back to Dorne. Prince Quentyn, the king made note of you today. His expression was not kind."

Gerris Drinkwater laughed. "Should we be frightened of Hizdahr zo Loraq? You saw him just now. He quailed before the Yunkishmen. They sent him a _head_ , and he did nothing."

Quentyn nodded in agreement. "A prince does well to think before he acts. This king… The queen warned me against him, true, but…"

"Then why are you still here?"

Quentyn flushed. "The marriage pact—"

"—was made by two dead men and contained not a word about the queen or you. Until you turned up here, the queen was ignorant of its existence Your father kept his secrets well—too well, I fear. If the queen had known of this pact in Qarth, she might never have turned aside for Slaver's Bay, but you came too late. I do not wish to salt your wounds, but Her Grace has a new husband and a paramour."

Anger flashed in the prince's dark eyes. "This Ghiscari lordling is no fit consort for the queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

"That is not for you to judge." Ser Barristan paused. "That day at Daznak's Pit, some of the food in the royal box was poisoned. It was only chance that Strong Belwas ate it all. The Blue Graces say that only his size and strength saved him, but it was a near thing. He may yet die."

The shock was plain on Quentyn's face. "Poison…meant for Daenerys?"

"Her or Hizdahr. Perhaps both. The box was his, though. His Grace made all the arrangements. If the poison was his doing…well, he will need a scapegoat. Who better than a rival from a distant land who has no friends at court? Who better than a suitor the queen spurned?"

Quentyn Martell went pale. "Me? I would never…you cannot think I had any part in any…"

Alyce knew the truth when she saw it. The boy did not have enough of the actor in him to lie well.

"Others might," said Ser Barristan. "The Red Viper was your uncle. And you have good reason to want King Hizdahr dead."

"So do others," suggested Drinkwater. "Naharis, for one. The queen's…"

"…paramour," Ser Barristan finished, before the Dornish knight could say anything that might besmirch the queen's honor. "That is what you call them down in Dorne, is it not? Prince Lewyn was my Sworn Brother. In those days there were few secrets amongst the Kingsguard. He kept a paramour. He did not feel there was any shame in that."

"No," said Quentyn, red-faced, "but…"

"Daario would kill Hizdahr in a heartbeat if he dared," Ser Barristan went on. "But not with poison. Never. And Daario was not there in any case. No, my prince. If Hizdahr needs a poisoner, he will look to you. If you must remain in Meereen, you would do well to stay away from court and hope Hizdahr forgets you, but a ship for Dorne would be wiser. Whatever you chose, I wish you well."

Before he had gone three steps, Quentyn Martell called out to him. "Barristan the Bold they call you."

"Some do."

Prince Quentyn's face was set with a strange expression. "What name do you think they will give me, should I return to Dorne without Daenerys? Quentyn the Cautious? Quentyn the Craven? Quentyn the Quail?"

Ser Barristan gazed at him, and there was a measure of pity in his eyes. "Quentyn the Wise," Ser Barristan suggested gently, before turning and taking his leave.

…


	46. XVII: Treason

…

XVII.

Treason

 **T** he four conspirators came together in the quiet of the armory on the Great Pyramid's second level, amongst racks of spears, sheaves of quarrels, and walls hung with trophies from forgotten battles.

"Tonight," said Skahaz mo Kandaq. The brass face of a blood bat peered out from beneath the hood of his patchwork cloak. "All my men will be in place. The word is _Groleo_."

"Groleo." _That is fitting, I suppose,_ thought Ser Barristan Selmy. "What was done to him…you were at court?"

"One guardsman amongst forty. All waiting for the empty tabard on the throne to speak the command so we might cut down Bloodbeard and the rest. Do you think the Yunkai'i would ever have dared present Daenerys with the severed head of her hostage?"

 _No_. "They would not have dared." Alyce beside him made a soft hissing sound. She had taken the precaution of dressing as an Unsullied, though she had taken off her helmet upon entering the room. Her eyes were dark and fierce, her movements lithe and sudden as a cat's.

"Hizdahr seemed distraught," he allowed.

"Sham," replied Skahaz. "His own kin of Loraq were returned unharmed. You saw. The Yunkai'i played us a farce, with noble Hizdahr as chief mummer. The issue was never Yurkhaz—they would have killed him themselves. They all wanted his place. No, this was to give Hizdahr a pretext to kill the dragons."

Ser Barristan chewed on that. "Would he dare?"

"He dared to kill his queen. Why not her pets?"

Lord Tyrion added, "Hizdahr will likely hesitate for a time, to give proof to his reluctance and allow the Wise Masters a chance to rid him of Naharis and Daenerys' bloodrider. Then he will act." The cunning dwarf was beside Alyce half in the shadows that collected at their feet, his head only as high as her hip. He was cloaked in black. "He will want the dragons dead before the Volantene fleet arrives."

 _Aye, they would._ It all fit. That did not mean Ser Barristan Selmy liked it any better. "That will not happen." His queen was the Mother of Dragons; he would not allow her children to come to harm. "The hour of the wolf. The blackest part of night, when all the world's asleep."

Tyrion gave him a strange glance. He muttered, "My father used to say that."

Barristan nodded to him. "Indeed I first heard those words from him, outside the walls of Duskendale. He gave me a day to bring out Aerys. Unless I returned with the king by dawn of the following day, he would take the town with steel and fire, he told me. It was the hour of the wolf when I went in and the hour of the wolf when we emerged." He looked to Skahaz. "Grey Worm and the Unsullied will close and bar the gates at first light."

"Better to _attack_ at first light," Alyce muttered. "Burst from the gates and swarm across the siege lines, smashing the Yunaki'i before they come stumbling from their beds."

"No. There is a peace," said Barristan, "signed and sealed by Her Grace the queen." Both Alyce and Skahaz often needed reminding of this fact. "We will not be the first to break it. Once we have taken Hizdahr, we will form a council to rule in his place and demand that the Yunkai'i return our hostages and withdraw their armies. Should they refuse, then and only then will we inform them that the peace is broken, and go forth to give them battle. To do elsewise would be dishonorable."

"Stupid," muttered Skahaz. "The hour is ripe. Our freedmen are ready. Hungry."

That much was true, Selmy knew. Symon Stripeback of the Free Brothers and Mollono Yos Dob of the Stalwart Shields were both eager for battle, intent on proving themselves and washing out all the wrongs they had suffered in a tide of Yunkish blood. Only Marselen of the Mother's Men shared Ser Barristan's doubts. "We discussed this. You agreed it would be my way."

"I agreed," the Shavepate grumbled, "but that was before Groleo. The head. The slavers have no honor."

"We do," said Ser Barristan.

"As you wish, though we will rue your old man's honor before this game is done, I think." Skahaz looked to Tyrion. "You take his side in this?"

"Yes," the dwarf answered him. "He's a better man than the both of us combined, and he knows better than we do that to win dishonorably is not to win. Not truly." His eyes met Barristan's for a moment. "It is something even my father never learned."

Alyce nodded her ascent, though there was some frustration in the tilt of her mouth. "Ser Barristan will decide how this is to be done. But there is simply no chance the Yunkai'i will return hostages and withdraw. It would be better simply to skip the show of the request…but if it must be done, it must be done. For Daenerys. She would want it that way."

"What of Hizdahr's guards?" Skahaz asked.

"His Grace keeps two men by him when he sleeps," said Barristan. "One on the door of his bedchamber, a second within, in an adjoining alcove. Tonight it will be Khrazz and Steelskin."

"Khrazz," the Shavepate grumbled. "That I do not like." Alyce's fingers flexed and her lips tightened. Her eyes traced over Ser Barristan's face.

"It need not come to blood," Barristan told them. "I mean to talk with Hizdahr." He held up at hand at Alyce's perturbed noise. "If he understands we do not intend to kill him, he may command his guards to yield."

"And if not?" Skahaz demanded. "Hizdahr must not escape us."

"He will not escape." There was cold steel in his blue eyes. Selmy did not fear Khrazz, much less Steelskin. "I shall deal with Khrazz. Just make certain I do not need to deal with any Brazen Beasts as well."

"Have no fear. We will have Marghaz in chains before he can make mischief."

"You say you have men amongst the Yunkishmen?"

"Sneaks and spies. Reznak has more."

"He can't be trusted," Alyce said quickly. "His allegiance is to Hizdahr above Daenerys."

"But someone needs to free our hostages," said Lord Tyrion, guessing Barristan's train of thought. "Unless we get our people back, the Yunkai'i will use them against us."

Skahaz snorted through the noseholes of his mask. "Easy to speak of rescue. Harder to do. Let the slavers threaten."

"And if they do more than threaten?"

"Would you miss them so much? A eunuch, a savage, and a sellsword?"

"Hero is Grey Worm's second in command," Alyce shot back. "An excellent fighter, a good man, and true."

Barristan added, "Jhogo is the queen's bloodrider, blood of her blood. They came out of the Red Waste together. And Daario…" _She loves Daario._ He had seen it in her eyes when she looked at him, heard it in her voice when she spoke to him. "…Daario is vain and rash, but he is dear to Her Grace. He must be rescued, before his Stormcrows decide to take matters into their own hands. It can be done."

"You could never hope to pass unnoticed amongst the Yunkai'i. Every man of them knows your face by now."

 _I could hide my face, like you._ But he knew the Shavepate was right. Duskendale had been a lifetime ago. He was too old for such heroics. "Then we must needs find some other way. Some other rescuer. Someone unknown to the Yunkishmen, whose presence in their camp might go unnoticed…"

"Daario calls you Ser Grandfather," Skahaz reminded him. "I will not say what he calls me. Or what I have heard him say about Lord Lannister and his sworn swordswoman." He glanced to Alyce and Tyrion has he spoke. "If you and I were the hostages, would he risk his skin for us?"

"Unlikely," Alyce muttered through her teeth. Her resentment and mistrust of Daario ran hot.

Barristan agreed, but he said, "He might."

"Daario might piss on us if we were burning," the Shavepate muttered. "Elsewise, do not look to him for help. Let the Stormcrows chose another captain, one who knows his place. If the queen does not return, the world will be one sellsword short. Who will grieve?"

"And when she does return?"

"She will weep and tear her hair and curse the Yunkai'i. Not us. No blood on our hands. You can comfort her. Tell her some tale of the old days, she likes those. Poor Daario, her brave captain…she will never forget him, no…but better for all if he is dead, no?"

Alyce's eyes fixed on Barristan's. "Better for Daenerys, too," she murmured.

 _Better for Daenerys, and for Westeros._ Daenerys Targaryen loved her captain, but that was the girl in her, not the queen. _Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it. Daemon Blackfyre loved the first Daenerys, and rose in rebellion when denied her. Bittersleet and Bloodraven both loved Shiera Seastar, and the Seven Kingdoms bled. The Prince of Dragonflies loved Jenny of Oldstones so much he cast aside a crown, and Westeros paid the price in corpses._ All three of the sons of the fifth Aegon had wed for love, in defiance of their father's wishes. And because that unlikely monarch had himself followed his heart when he chose his queen, he allowed his sons to have their way, making bitter enemies where he might have had fast friends. Treason and turmoil followed, as night follows day, ending at Summerhall in sorcery, fire, and grief.

 _Her love for Daario is poison. A slower poison than the locusts, but in the end as deadly._ "There is still Jhogo. Him, and Hero. Both precious to Her Grace."

"We have hostages as well," Skahaz Shavepate reminded them. "If the slavers kill one of ours, we kill one of theirs."

For a moment, Ser Barristan did not know whom he meant. Then it came to him. "The queen's cupbearers?"

"Hostages," insisted Skahaz. "Grazdar and Qezza are the blood of the Green Grace. Mezzara is of Merraq, Kezmya is Pahl, Azzak Ghazeen. Bhakaz is Loraq, Hizdahr's own kin. All are—"

Alyce interrupted him. "Can you imagine any circumstance that would cause Daenerys to harm one of these children? We must act in her stead. This means making the choices she would have made."

Skahaz blew a frustrated breath and one of his fists clenched. "That she would be loathe to harm them is _exactly_ why they were given to her. They exploit her weakness and give her one less weapon against the Great Masters. Perhaps it is not _savory_ , but one child's life so that these three so precious to Her Grace are not put to the sword? Which do we prefer?"

"It may not come to such," Lord Tyrion told them calmly. "Barristan, you said you needed a rescuer. We have sellswords in our dungeons. The Windblown, the feigned deserters that came with Martell and claim they came to treat with Daenerys on behalf of the Tattered Prince—Hungerford, Straw, and others. The Dornishmen claim some of them are almost decent men, for sellswords, and after all, their like would switch any allegiance for the right price. The same for the Tattered Prince and the Second Sons. We could send a message through them from us, telling the captains that we speak with the queen's voice, and that we will pay their price if they deliver us our hostages, unharmed and whole."

A thoughtful quiet greeted his words as Skahaz and Barristan considered.

"No harm in such a thing," Skahaz mo Kandaq said. "We lose next to nothing if the attempt goes ill."

After chewing on the proposal another moment, Ser Barristan nodded. "This is an idea. But move on it only after we have Hizdahr."

Lord Tyrion nodded his agreement. "It may have to be you, ser, who gives the message to the Windblown to take. They may not recognize my authority as they would yours."

Again Ser Barristan nodded. "Harm to Her Grace's cupbearers is out of the question. Innocent girls and sweet-faced boys. I will not suffer the murder of children. Accept this, Skahaz, or I'll have no part of this."

Shakaz chucked. "You are a stubborn old man. Your sweet-faced boys will only grow up to be Sons of the Harpy. Kill them now or kill them then."

"You kill men for the wrongs they have done, not the wrongs that they may do someday."

"So be it. No harm to Hizdahr or our hostages. Will that content you?"

 _Nothing about this will content me._ "It will serve. The hour of the wolf. Remember."

"I am not like to forget, ser. Long has Kandaq waited for his night."

 _That is what I fear._ If King Hizdahr was innocent, what they did this night would be treason. But how could he be innocent? Selmy had heard him urging Daenerys to taste the locusts, shouting at his men to slay the dragon. _If we do not act, Hizdahr will kill the dragons and open the gates to the queen's enemies._

"Will you not let me face Khrazz with you, ser?" Alyce asked him. Her tone was weighty. It was not pleading, but there was deep concern in her highborn eyes.

"No, Alyce. I am not concerned about Khrazz."

"I will wait in the hall," she said, eyes flashing. "And if it goes ill for you, _call_ for me."

"As you say."

She looked unsatisfied, but compliant.

The rest of the day that dawned passed as swiftly as a snail.

Elsewhere, he knew, King Hizdahr was consulting with Reznak, Marghaz, Galazza Galare, and his other Meereenese advisors, deciding how best to respond to Yunkai's demands…but Barristan Selmy was no longer part of such councils. Nor did he have a king to guard. Instead he made the rounds of the pyramid from top to bottom, to ascertain that the sentries were all at their posts. That took most of the morning. He spend the afternoon with his orphans and Alyce. Lord Tyrion watched the training from across the gallery for an hour or so, but then left them, taking a few Unsullied guards with him as he went.

Some of his older lads had been training for the fighting pits when Daenerys Targaryen took Meereen and freed them from their chains. Those had had a good acquaintance with sword and spear and battle-axe even before Ser Barristan got hold of them. A few might well be ready. _Tumco Lho from the Basilisk Isles for a start._ Black as maester's ink he was, and fast and strong, the best natural swordsman Selmy had seen since Jaime Lannister. He and Alyce spoke often of him and his skill.

 _Larraq as well. The Lash._ Ser Barristan did not approve of his fighting style, but there was no doubting his skills. Larraq had years of work ahead of him before he mastered proper knightly weapons, sword and lance and mace, but he was deadly with his whip and trident. The old knight had warned him that the whip would be useless against an armored foe…until he saw how Larraq used it, snapping it around the legs of his opponents to yank them off their feet. _No knight as yet, but a fierce fighter._

Larraq was a particular favorite of Alyce's, likely because they both were fond of their unorthodox approaches to fighting. He was not her equal in speed or experience, but she often liked to match herself against his whip.

Alyce liked to challenge herself. She had pride, but she did not ever allow it to get in the way of her learning more about how to fight. Ser Barristan was fond of that aspect of her character. She was not ashamed of looking a fool or poor at her skill if she was learning something from the failures. Larraq had given her some instruction in how to use a whip herself, and when she learned how to evade him, he learned more about using his favored weapon as well.

Alyce would never be one of Queen Daenerys' knights, but Ser Barristan found himself glad the queen had her all the same. The young woman was not a sword out plainly in the light, but one hiding in the shadow. If the queen's knights were targeted, or if they failed her, Alyce would be there. Her greatest strength was that she would always be underestimated.

After Tumco and Larraq, there was the Lhazarene, the one the other boys called Red Lamb, though as yet that one was all ferocity and no technique. Perhaps the brothers too, three lowborn Ghiscari enslaved to pay their father's debts.

That made six. _Six out of twenty-seven._ Selmy might have hoped for more, but six was a good beginning. The other boys were younger for the most part, and more familiar with looms and plows and chamber pots than swords and shields, but they worked hard and learned quickly. A few more years as squires, and he might have six more knights to give his queen. As for those who would never be ready, well, not every boy was meant to be a knight. _The realm needs candlemakers and inkeeps and armorers as well._ That was as true in Meereen as it was in Westeros.

A bond was growing between Tumco, Alyce, Larraq, the Red Lamb, and the other boys, as always grew between young men who trained at arms together. It pleased him. Such bonds encouraged loyalty—and bravery. To fight for one's brothers in arms was sometimes a greater motivation than to fight for a monarch or cause.

As he watched them at their drills, Ser Barristan pondered raising Tumco and Larraq to knighthood then and there. It required a knight to make a knight, and if something should go awry tonight, dawn might find him dead or in a dungeon. Who would dub his squires then? On the other hand, a young knight's repute derived at least in part from the honor of the man who conferred knighthood on him. It would do his lads no good at all if it was known that they were given their spurs by a traitor, and might well land them in the dungeon next to him. _They deserve better_ , Ser Barristan decided. _Better a long life as a squire than a short one as a soiled knight._

As the afternoon melted into evening, he bid his charges to lay down their swords and shields and gather round. Alyce was speaking with a hint of firmness to the Red Lamb as he did so; she trailed off and nodded for the Lhazarene to go and join them. She herself hung back. She was not part of these squires, nor was she a teacher on the same level as he. She played a strange in-between part amongst them, as she did in life.

He spoke to his boys about what it meant to be a knight. "It is chivalry that makes a true knight, not a sword," he said. "Without honor, a knight is no more than a common killer. It is better to die with honor than to live without it." The boys looked at him strangely, he thought, but one day they would understand.

Afterward, back at the apex of the pyramid, Barristan and Alyce found Missandei and Lord Tyrion amongst piles of scrolls and books in Daenerys' apartments, reading.

Tyrion's eyes found Alyce's the moment they stepped inside, and he glanced over her before taking in anything else, making sure she was still well and whole. His passion for her was in Barristan's opinion the best of his very limited redeeming qualities.

"Stay here tonight, child," he told Missandei. "Whatever happens, whatever you see or hear, do not leave the queen's chambers."

"This one hears," the girl said. Her eyes glanced between them all. "If she may ask—"

"Best not. Lord Tyrion will stay with you."

"Guard him for me, sweetling," Alyce murmured, a gentle jape. Lord Tyrion was the one who had a dirk resting at his hip.

Ser Barristan stepped out alone onto the terrace gardens. _I am not made for this_ , he reflected as he looked out over the sprawling city. The pyramids were waking one by one, lanterns and torches flickering to life as shadows gathered in the streets below. _Plots, ploys, whispers, lies, secrets within secrets, and somehow I have become part of them._

Perhaps by now he should have grown used to such things. The Red Keep had its secrets too. _Even Rhaegar._ The Prince of Dragonstone had never trusted him as he had trusted Arthur Dayne. Harrenhall was proof of that. _The year of the false spring._

The memory was still bitter. Old Lord Whent had announced the tourney shortly after a visit from his brother, Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard. With Varys whispering in his ear, King Aerys became convinced that his son was conspiring to depose him, that Whent's tourney was but a ploy to give Rhaegar a pretext for meeting with as many great lords as could be brought together. Aerys had not set foot outside the Red Keep since Duskendale, yet suddenly he announced that he would accompany Prince Rhaegar to Harrenhall, and everything had gone awry from there.

 _If I had been a better knight…if I had unhorsed the prince in that last tilt, as I unhorsed so many others, it would have been for me to choose the queen of love and beauty…_

Rhaegar had chosen Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. Barristan Selmy would have made a different choice. Not the queen, who was not present, nor Elia of Dorne, though she was good and gentle; had she been chosen, much war and woe might have been avoided. His choice would have been a young maiden not long at court, one of Elia's companions…though compared to Ashara Dayne, the Dornish princess was a kitchen drab.

Even after all these years, Ser Barristan could still recall Ashara's smile, the sound of her laughter. He had only to close his eyes to see her, with her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders and those haunting purple eyes. _Daenerys has the same eyes._ Sometimes when the queen looked at him, he felt as if he were looking at Ashara's daughter.

But Ashara's daughter had been stillborn, and his fair lady had thrown herself from a tower soon after, mad with grief for the child she had lost, and perhaps for the man who had dishonored her at Harrenhall as well. She died never knowing that Ser Barristan had loved her. _How could she?_ He was a knight of the Kingsguard, sworn to celibacy. No good could have come from him telling her his feelings. _No good came from silence, either. If I had unhorsed Rhaegar and crowned Ashara queen of love and beauty, might she have looked to me instead of Stark?_

He would never know. But of all his failures, none haunted Barristan Selmy so much as that.

The sky was overcast, the air hot, muggy, oppressive, yet there was something in it that made his spine tingle. _Rain,_ he thought. _A storm is coming. If not tonight, upon the morrow._ Ser Barristan wondered if he would live to see it. If it should come to that, he meant to die as he had lived, with his sword in his hand.

When the last light had faded in the west, behind the sails of the prowling sails on Slaver's Bay, Ser Barristan went back inside, summoned a pair of serving men, and told them to heat some water for a bath. Sparring with his squires in the afternoon heat had left him feeling soiled and sweaty.

The water, when it came, was only lukewarm, but Selmy lingered in the bath until it had grown cold and scrubbed his skin. Clean as he ever had been, he rose, dried himself, and clad himself in whites. Stockings, smallclothes, silken tunic, padded jerkin, all fresh-washed and bleached. Over that he donned the armor that the queen had given him as a token of her esteem. The mail was gilded, finely wrought, the links as supple as good leather, the plate enameled, hard as ice and bright as new-fallen snow. His dagger went on one hip, his longsword on the other, hung from a white leather belt with golden buckles. Last of all he took down his long white cloak and fastened it about his shoulders.

The helm he left upon its hook. The narrow eyeslit limited his vision, and he needed to be able to see for what was to come. The halls of the pyramid were dark, and foes could come at one from either side. Besides, though the ornate dragon's wings that adorned the helm were splendid to look upon, they could too easily catch a sword or axe. He would leave them for his next tourney if the Seven should grant him one.

Armed and armored, the old knight waited, sitting in the gloom of his small chamber adjoining the queen's apartments. Outside the pyramid, it began to rain. Ser Barristan sat alone, listening. _It sounds like tears. It sounds like dead kings, weeping._

Then it was time to go.

…


	47. XVIII: Barristan the Bold

…

XVIII.

Barristan the Bold

 **S** er Barristan Selmy passed through Daenerys' apartments to leave in order to collect Alyce. Lord Tyrion was reading in a low, handsome voice from some tales of courtly drama to Alyce and Missandei, though the latter was asleep, curled against a pillow near him. Alyce perched, taut as a bowstring, on the edge of a divan, and armorclad as well, though he was pleased to see she had taken pains to hide it, and to wear only her swordsword and one dirk, and what armor felt necessary to her. Barristan made note to speak to her about such things; wearing only partial armor when armor was called for was a pitfall. But now was not the time.

She rose to her feet fluidly. Lord Tyrion's eyes held a wish for a more loving leavetaking, but Alyce only touched his hand for less than a moment before she followed Barristan out.

The Great Pyramid of Meereen had been built as an echo to the Great Pyramids of Ghis whose colossal ruins Lomas Longstrider had once visited. Like its ancient predecessor, whose red marble halls were now the haunts of bats and spiders, the Meereenese pyramid boasted three-and-thirty levels, that number being somehow sacred to the gods of Ghis. They began the long descent and took the servant's steps, not the grand stairways of veined marble, but the narrower, steeper, straighter hidden stairways within the thick brick walls.

Twelve levels down they found the Shavepate waiting, his coarse features still hidden by the mask he had worn very early that morning, the blood bat. Six Brazen Beasts were with him. All were masked as insects, identical to one another. Locusts.

"Groleo," he said.

"Groleo," one of the locusts replied.

"I have more locusts if you need them," said Skahaz.

"Six should serve. It is likely they will not be able to enter with me, in any case. What of the men on the doors?"

"Mine. You will have no trouble."

Ser Barristan clasped the Shavepate by the arm. "Shed no blood unless you must. Come the morrow we will convene a council and tell the city what we've done and why."

"As you say. Good fortune to you."

They went their separate ways. The Beasts fell in behind Ser Barristan and Alyce as they continued the descent.

The king's apartments were buried in the very heart of the pyramid, on the sixteenth and seventeeth levels. When Selmy reached those floors, he found the doors to the interior of the pyramid chained shut, with a pair of Brazen Beasts posted as guards. Beneath the hoods of their patchwork cloaks, one was a rat, the other a bull.

"Groleo," Ser Barrisan said.

"Groleo," the bull returned. "Third hall to the right." The rat unlocked the chain. Ser Barristan as his escort stepped through into a narrow, torch-lit servant's corridor of red and black brick. Their footsteps echoed on the floors as they strode past two halls and took the third one to the right.

Outside the carved wooden doors to the king's chambers stood Steelskin, a younger pit fighter, not yet regarded as of the first rank. His cheeks, brow, chest, and arms were scarred with intricate tattoos in green and black, ancient Valyrian sorcerer's signs that supposedly made his flesh as hard as steel. Even without them, Steelskin looked formidable—a lean and wiry youth who overtopped Ser Barristan by half a foot. "Who goes there?" he called out, swinging his longaxe sideways to bar their way. When he saw Ser Barristan with Alyce and the brass locusts behind him, he lowered it again. "Old Ser."

"If it please the king, I must needs have words with him."

"The hour is late."

"The hour is late, but the need is urgent."

"I can ask." Steelskin skimmed the butt of his longaxe against the door to the king's apartments. A slidehole opened. A child's eye appeared. A child's voice called through the door. Steelskin replied. Ser Barristan heard the sound of a heavy bar being drawn back. The door swung open.

"Only you," said Steelskin. "The girl and the beasts wait here."

"As you wish." Ser Barristan nodded to his companions. One beast returned his nod. Alone, Selmy slipped through the door.

Dark and windowless, surrounded on all sides by brick walls eight feet thick, the chambers that the king had made his own were large and luxurious within. Great beams of black oak supported the high ceilings. The floors were covered with silk carpets out of Qarth. The archway leading to the royal bedchamber was guarded by a pair of sandalwood lovers, shaped and smoothed and oiled. Ser Barristan found them distasteful, though no doubt they were meant to be arousing. _The sooner we are gone from this place, the better._

An iron brazier gave the only light. Beside it stood two of the queen's cupbearers, Draqaz and Qezza. "Miklaz has gone to wake the king," said Qezza. "May we bring you wine, ser?"

"No. I thank you."

"You may sit," said Draqaz, indicating a bench.

"I prefer to stand." He could hear voices drifting through the archway from the bedchamber. One of them was the king's.

It was still a good few moments before King Hizdahr zo Loraq, Fourteenth of that Noble Name, emerged yawning, knotting the sash that closed his robe. The robe was green satin, richly worked, and under it the king was quite naked. That was good. Naked men felt vulnerable and were less inclined to acts of suicidal heroism.

The woman Ser Barristan glimpsed peering through the archway from behind a gauzy curtain was naked as well, her breasts and hips only partially concealed by the blowing silk.

"Ser Barristan." Hizdahr yawned again. "What hour is it? Is there news of my sweet queen?"

"None, Your Grace."

Hizdahr sighed. "'Your _Magnificence_ ,' please. Though at this hour 'Your Sleepiness' would be more apt." The king crossed to the sideboard to pour himself a cup of wine, but only a trickle remained in the bottom of the flagon. Annoyance crossed his face. "Miklaz, wine. At once."

"Yes, Your Worship."

"Take Draqaz with you. One flagon of Arbor gold, and one of that sweet red. None of your yellow piss, thank you. And the next time I find my flagon dry, I may have to take a switch to those pretty pink cheeks of yours." The boy went running off, and the king turned back to Selmy. "I dreamed you found Daenerys."

"Dreams can lie, Your Grace."

"'Your Radiance' would serve. What brings you to me at this hour, ser? Some trouble in the city?"

"The city is tranquil."

"Is it so?" Hizdahr looked confused. "Why have you come?"

"To ask a question. Magnificence, are you the Harpy?"

Hizdahr's wine cup slipped from his fingers, bounced off the carpet, rolled. "You come to my bedchamber in the black of night and ask me that? Are you mad?" It was only then that the king seemed to notice that Ser Barristan was wearing his plate and mail. "What…why…how dare you…"

"Was the poison your work, Magnificence?"

King Hizdahr backed away a step. "The locusts? That…that was the Dornishmen. Quentyn, the so-called prince. Ask Reznak if you doubt me."

"Have you proof of that? Has Reznak?"

"No, else I would have had them seized. Perhaps I should do so in any case. Marghaz will wring a confession out of them, I do not doubt. They're all poisoners, these Dornish. Reznak says they worship snakes."

"They eat snakes," said Ser Barristan. "It was your pit, your box, your seats. You urged Her Grace to try the locusts but never tasted one yourself."

"I…hot spices do not agree with me. She was my wife. My queen. Why would I want to poison her?"

 _Was, he says. He believes her dead._ "Only you can answer that, Magnificence. It might be that you wished to put another woman in her place." Ser Barristan nodded toward the bedchamber.

The king looked around wildly. " _Her_? She's nothing. A bedslave." He raised his hands. "I misspoke. Not a slave. A free woman, trained in pleasure. Even a king has needs, she…she is none of your concern, ser. I would never harm Daenerys. Never."

"With mine own ears I heard you commanding the men in the pit to kill Drogon. Shouting at them."

Hizdahr licked his lips. "The beast devoured Barsena's flesh. Dragons prey on men. It was killing, burning…"

"Burning men who meant harm to your queen. Harpy's Sons. Your friends."

"Not my friends."

"You say that, yet when you told them to stop killing, they obeyed. Why would they do so if you were not one of them?"

Hizdahr shook his head. This time he did not answer.

"Tell me true," Ser Barristan said, "did you ever love her, even a little? Or was it just the crown you lusted for?"

"Lust? You dare speak to me of _lust_?" The king's mouth twisted in anger. "I lusted for the crown, aye…but not half so much as she lusted for her sellsword. Perhaps it was her precious captain who tried to poison her, for putting him aside. And if I had eaten of his locusts too, well, so much the better."

"Daario is a killer but not a poisoner." Ser Barristan moved closer to the king. "Are you the Harpy?" This time he put a hand on the hilt of his longsword. "Tell me true and you shall have a swift, clean death."

"You presume too much, ser," said Hizdahr, retreating another step. "I am done with these questions, and with you. You are dismissed from my service. Leave Meereen at once and I will let you live."

"If you are not the Harpy, give me his name." Ser Barristan pulled his sword from its scabbard. Its sharp edge caught the light from the brazier, became a line of orange fire.

Hizdahr broke. "Khrazz!" he shrieked, stumbling backwards toward his bedchamber. "Khrazz! _Khrazz_!"

Ser Barristan heard a door open, somewhere to his left. He turned in time to see Khrazz emerge. He moved slowly, still groggy from sleep, but his weapon of choice was in his hand: a Dothraki _arakh_ , long and curved. A slasher's sword, made to deliver deep, slicing cuts from horseback. But here at close quarters, the _arakh_ 's length would tell against it, and Barristan Selmy was clad in plate and mail.

"I am here for Hizdahr," the knight said. "Throw down your steel and stand aside and no harm need come to you."

Khrazz laughed. "Old man. I will eat your heart." The two men were of a height, but Krazz was two stone heavier and forty years younger, with pale skin, dead eyes, and a crest of bristly red-black hair that ran from his brow to the base of his neck.

"Then come," said Barristan the Bold.

Khrazz came.

For the first time all day, Selmy felt certain. _This is what I was made for,_ he thought. _The dance, the sweet steel song, a sword in my hand and a foe before me._

The pit fighter was fast, blazing fast, as quick as any man Ser Barristan had ever fought. In those big hands, the _arakh_ became a whistling blur, a steel storm that seemed to come at the old knight from three directions at once. Most of the cuts were aimed at his head. Khrazz was no fool. Without a helm, Selmy was most vulnerable above the neck.

He blocked the blows calmly, his longsword meeting each slash and turning it aside. The blades rang and rang again. Ser Barristan retreated. On the edge of his vision, he saw the cupbearers watching with eyes as big and white as chicken eggs. Khrazz cursed and turned a high cut into a low one, slipping past the knight's blade for once, only to have his blow scrape uselessly off a white steel greave. Selmy's answering slash found the pitfighter's left shoulder, parting the fine linen to bite the flesh beneath. His yellow tunic began to turn pink, then red.

"Only cowards dress in iron," Khrazz declared, circling. No one wore armor in the fighting pits. It was blood the crowds came for; death, dismemberment, and shrieks of agony, the music of the scarlet sands.

Ser Barristan turned with him. "This coward is about to kill you, ser." The man was no knight, but his courage had earned him that much courtesy. Khrazz did not know how to fight a man in armor. The pit fighter came on again, screaming this time, as if sound could slay his foe where steel could not. The _arakh_ slashed low, high, low again.

Selmy blocked the cuts at his head and let his armor stop the rest, whilst his own blade opened the pit fighter's cheek from ear to mouth, then traced a raw red gash across his chest. Blood welled from Khrazz's wounds. That only seemed to make him wilder. He seized the brazier with his off hand and flipped it, scattering embers and hot coals at Selmy's feet. Ser Barristan leapt over them. Khrazz slashed at his arm and caught him, but the _arakh_ could only chip the hard enamel before it met the steel below.

"In the pit that would have taken your arm off, old man."

"We are not in the pit."

" _Take off that armor_!"

"It is not too late to throw down your steel. Yield."

"Die," spat Khrazz…but as he lifted his _arakh_ , its tip grazed one of the wall hangings and hung. That was all the chance Ser Barristan required. He slashed open the pit fighter's belly, parried the _arakh_ as it wrenched free, then finished Khrazz with a quick thrust to the heart as the pit fighter's entrails came sliding out like a nest of greasy eels.

Blood and viscera stained the king's silk carpets. Selmy took a step back. The longsword in his hand was red for half its length. Here and there the carpets had begun to smolder where some of the scattered coals had fallen. He could hear Qezza sobbing. "Don't be afraid," the old knight said. "I mean you no harm, child. I want only the king."

He wiped his sword clean on a curtain and stalked into the bedchamber, where he found Hizdahr zo Loraq hiding behind a tapestry and whimpering. "Spare me," he begged. "I do not want to die."

"Few do. Yet all men die." Ser Barristan sheathed his sword and pulled Hizdahr to his feet. "Come. I will escort you to a cell." By now, Alyce and the Brazen Beasts with her should have disarmed Steelskin. "You will be kept a prisoner until the queen returns. If nothing can be proved against you, you will not come to harm. You have my word as a knight." He took the king's arm and led him from the bedchamber, feeling strangely light-headed. _I was a Kingsguard. What am I now?_

Miklaz and Draqaz returned with Hizdahr's wine. They stood in the open door, cradling flagons against their chests and staring wide-eyed at the corpse of Khrazz. Qezza was still crying, but Jezhene was comforting her. Some of the other cupbearers stood behind them, watching.

"Your Worship," Miklaz said, "the noble Reznak mo Reznak says to t-tell you, come at once."

The boy addressed the king as if Ser Barristan were not there, as if there were no dead man sprawled upon the carpet.

 _Skahaz was supposed to take Reznak into custody. Has something gone awry?_ "Come where?" Ser Barristan asked the boy. "Where does the seneschal want His Grace to go?"

"Outside." Miklaz seemed to see him for the first time. "Outside, ser. To the t-terrace. To see."

"To see what?"

"D-dragons. The dragons have been loosed, ser."

 _Seven save us all._

…


	48. XIX: City of Dragons

…

XIX.

City of Dragons

 **A** lyce Waters sighed in relief when the door to Hizdahr zo Loraq's apartments opened and Ser Barristan stood there, holding the king captive. Beside her, Steelskin knelt in the hall, disarmed, bound, and held still by two beasts. One beast moved forward to bind the king similarly.

"Alyce." Ser Barristan looked unaccountably rattled. "Viserion and Rhaegal have been loosed."

" _What_?!"

"While I escort these two to the dungeons with these men, make sure Reznak has been taken into custody," Barristan ordered. "Find Skahaz and fetch Lord Tyrion. Miklaz came from Reznak—the seneschal mentioned something about the Dornishmen."

"The Dornish…you don't think they…?" She stared.

" _Find out_."

Alyce spun and took off running. "Perhaps they can be lured back with food…" she thought aloud as she went. The Unsullied had closed and barred the gates, and they were moving back into the main halls of the pyramid. Some people were running as they passed her, shouting about the dragons. Chaos gripped the halls. "If you see Reznak, seize him and escort him to the dungeons!" she informed the soldiers she saw.

Reznak was not at his quarters, but finally she came across a soldier who had seen him being taken captive. "The Shavepate and his beasts have already taken him," he said.

 _Good_. "Thank you." _Now, Tyrion. And the dragons._ She sprinted up eighteen levels back to the queen's apartments, but when she arrived, panting like a dog and holding her side, only Missandei was still there.

"My lady," the girl exclaimed. "The _dragons_!"

Alyce could plainly see dragonfire lighting the city through the queen's open balcony doors. "Yes, sweet…" she panted. "Where…is Lord Tyrion?"

"When we saw the dragons had escaped, he ran out. This one thinks he is trying to help."

"But did he…" —she heaved air— "…say how or… _where_ he was going?"

Missandei shook her head, her large golden eyes wide. "My lady, what has happened?"

Alyce caught her breath for a moment, then explained quickly, "We've taken Hizdahr and Reznak into custody. In his place, a council will rule until Daenerys returns."

Missandei nodded slowly. "Why have the dragons been set free?"

"We don't know. The Dornishmen might be involved. I have to go. Stay here."

Alyce made for Grey Worm's council room. If Tyrion wanted to do something, it was most likely he would go to the Unsullied for help accomplishing it.

When she saw Grey Worm, Tyrion, and the commanders of the freedmen were all within, she ran in demanding, " _How did this happen_?"

Tyrion answered her as she crossed swiftly to his side. "Quentyn Martell, his men, and the Windblown attempted to master the dragons and remove them to a ship. Instead, Rhaegal doused Quentyn in dragonfire and the two escaped them."

"Seven _hells_ ," Alyce groaned. "Daenerys needs Dorne. Seven bloody fucking hells… Poor stupid boy… What's been done to retrieve them? Is it possible we could lure them back?"

Tyrion was shaking his head as she asked. "No. Daenerys herself could not coax them back into imprisonment. It ought not be attempted. They have tasted freedom now, and dragons are clever. The best we can do is what I have already ordered done—we fill the Pit of Daznak with sheep and cattle and hope that mass of easy prey keeps them in the city and prevents them from hunting any citizens."

"Good…that was clever of you…and the Dornish?"

"As many of the Windblown as we could capture and Ser Gerris and Yronwood are in the dungeons. Prince Quentyn lies on the edge of death, in the care of the pyramid's healers."

"The boy's still alive."

Tyrion's expression gave her little hope. "We're told he lost most of his skin, Alyce. He will not be long for the world."

She rubbed her face with her hand, groaning.

As the dragons flaunted their freedom across Meereen, burning and destroying for the pleasure of it, Tyrion and Alyce watched from the queen's balconies. Ser Barristan appeared and joined them for a time, then left to take care of other things.

The body of Khrazz was removed from Hizdahr's chambers and his cupbearers were brought back to Daenerys' apartments. They hung back in doorways, eyeing Alyce and Tyrion with some fear. Missandei spoke gently to them.

Things slowly settled inside the pyramid as the Unsullied and Brazen Beasts reestablished control and order. Outside in the city, the soldiers hunted down any sellswords and Yunkai'i still in the city, and expelling, arresting, or killing those caught. Many and more had gone to ground within the pyramids. The Unsullied manned the walls and towers, ready for any assault.

There was still an hour or two before the dawn, but there was enough fire in the city to light the dragon's doings. She and Lord Tyrion watched as Viserion set a row of homes alight. It had already destroyed the pyramid of Hazkar. The dragon had smote its stones from the sky, and leapt from section to section, leaving ruined crumbles in its wake. Men and women died as it burned and fell. Those foolish enough to oppose the dragon had died wreathed in its golden flame.

The rain was a drizzle at the moment, but the dark sky threatened heavier rain soon, and it would be welcome. The rain would drive the dragons out of the sky.

Rhaegal seemed to be searching for something; it flew, circled, destroyed buildings, hissed fire.

"Rhaegal is looking for a nest," Tyrion told her as they watched. He stood close beside her. If she wished, she could touch his hood and shoulder. The drizzle was collecting on the wool of their cloaks.

"Are we any closer to the Harpy?" Alyce asked him. "Has Grey Worm been able to find out anything from these wounded suspects he was watching? They are going to start their killings again, Tyrion. With vengeance."

His mouth was a taut line. "We have not learned much of use. We have discovered a few cells, but that is all. The Harpy does not share all it secrets with all its soldiers, as a wise underground rebellion does not."

Alyce cursed under her breath.

"I hear Khrazz will not be eating anymore hearts," Tyrion mused.

"I should have liked to see it," she said.

"Unarmored against armored. Hardly a fair fight."

"Ser Barristan is thrice his age," Alyce countered. "But yes, one would be hard-pressed to find a swordsman the equal of Ser Barristan to make for a fair fight." Her voice was arch. Tyrion found her defense of her teacher amusing, and smiled a little.

"I cannot say how pleased it makes me that Hizdahr and Reznak are in our dungeons," she muttered under her breath. "Slimy bastards. They were like flies ruling in place of a dragon. I chafed beneath them."

"I know." He crossed his arms. "It is as it should be now. Well…close to."

Rhaegal was clawing and torching its way into the great black pyramid of Yherizan as its occupants fled. Its dragonflame was orange-and-yellow shot through with veins of deep green. Rhaegal left the outside of the pyramid relatively unscathed and disappeared into the black gloom of it.

"Yherizan will be his lair, it seems," Tyrion murmured.

The fires were spreading, but the rain was falling harder now, too. The rain displeased Viserion; the ivory dragon finished feasting on two sheep it had roasted alive within Daznak's Pit and flew back to the ruined pyramid of Hazkar. It disappeared amongst the huge smoking piles of rubble.

Dragonfire was tenacious, but the hard grey rain slowly doused it. Many sections of the city still smoked, however, and wails occasionally rode the wind up to them from the Meereenese mourning their homes or their dead.

A thin red slash marked the eastern horizon where the sun would soon appear. It reminded Alyce of blood welling from a wound. Often, even with a deep cut, the blood came before the pain.

As the red sun rose, she and Tyrion ended their quiet watching and went into Daenerys' chambers. Rainwater ran off the backs of their cloaks and their boots left wet tracks on the floors and carpets. Beneath his cloak, Tyrion was wearing well-tailored clothes that befit a lord, a dark tunic, sand-colored pants, and a dun and green vest of a handsome golden embroidered pattern. The narrow belt he wore at his waist held his triangular-bladed dirk and was red and black—dragon colors. Tyrion of House Lannister had traded in the lion for the dragon for all to see.

Sometime in the last hour, Prince Quentyn had been moved up into Daenerys' own bed. He had been a knight and a prince of Dorne; it seemed only kind to let him die in the bed he had crossed half a world to reach. The bedding was ruined—sheets, covers, pillows, mattress, all reeked of blood and smoke, but Alyce knew Daenerys would forgive him.

Missandei at his bedside, tending to such needs as the doomed boy could express, giving him water and milk of the poppy when he was strong enough to drink, listening to the few tortured words he gasped out from time to time, reading to him when he fell quiet. Alyce had heard Ser Barristan ask several of the queen's cupbearers to help, but the sight of the burned man was too much for even the boldest of them. The Blue Graces had not come, though Barristan had sent for them as well.

Alyce found the sight of the remains of the young prince trying even for her hardened stomach. So much of the prince's skin had sloughed away that the skull beneath could be seen. His eyes were pools of pus. She grimaced, her eyes narrow slits.

"Do you need for anything?" she asked Missandei. She child shook her head.

"No, my lady." Her eyes were tight and sad.

Alyce touched her face gently. "You are a dear thing for tending to him as you are. Call if there is anything we can help with. We will be in the adjoining room."

The Naathi scribe nodded, and Alyce and Tyrion finally found themselves alone in Daenerys' separate sitting room. Tyrion helped her off with her arms and armor, and on the sofa, he rested his head against her chest and neck.

"If Daenerys is never found, or found dead," Alyce murmured, "what would you have us do?" She didn't want to consider the possibility, but it hung in the air. _She's most like to die of thirst. Thirst is the quickest killer out in the Dothraki sea._

"I suppose we return to Pentos." His tone was low and dejected at the idea.

"We might make for Aegon."

"Ah yes, the other young dragon," Tyrion mused. "Not Daenerys' equal, but still enough of one to give the Seven Kingdoms a stir. I suppose he would need his aunt's dragons brought to him."

Alyce considered this. "Do you think they would go with you? On a ship? Or do you mean to fly them over the Narrow?"

There was a gleam in Tyrion's eye. "Now _that_ is quite an idea. But somehow I think the sight of a dwarf on dragonback would not ignite fervor into the hearts of his would-be subjects." His tone had gone dry, tinged with bitterness.

"Drogon is most likely still alive, even if Daenerys isn't. It would do to find him first, least be become thrall to some Dothraki _khal_ or worse."

"Drogon would not submit to just any man, warlord or no," Tyrion muttered. "But yes, he must be found. He still young yet and could be killed if unable to take to the skies quickly enough." He frowned, thinking.

"I believe we would have a place in Aegon's circle, should we wish it," she said.

Tyrion gave her a dry glance. "Of course we would. The lad was far too fond of you." His mouth turned down a little, almost grimly. "The jealousy would be no easier for me to swallow now than it was on the _Shy Maid_."

"Were you jealous over me on the _Shy Maid_?" She looked down at him and grinned.

He rolled his eyes. "I tell you nothing you did not already know."

Alyce laughed a little under her breath and pressed her lips to his hair. "You guarded your feelings like an old miser. I could never really tell what you thought or didn't."

His lips twitched. "The crow calls the raven black."

"Oh, please. I tucked you into blankets when you shivered, rubbed medicine on your ankles, protected and saved you. _You_ cursed me and called me Varys' hatchling."

Tyrion grimaced at the memory. His middle finger traced a pattern on the back of one of her hands. "Forgive me that morning. Old wounds retuned to haunt me in my sleep and reminded me not to trust anyone, especially lovely young women."

"Old wounds?" She did not usually prod at his past, but felt she had the right to in this instance. "Tell me of them."

"Another man's wounds from another life."

Alyce, with her mouth pressed gently against his head, sighed. "If you do not tell me who wounded you, how will I know to kill them?" she murmured, only half in jest. Tyrion's chest moved with his soft chuckle.

"My sister Cercei, my brother Jaime. Petyr Baelish," he listed, voice low and dry. "My father and my whore I have already taken care of."

"Baelish will be simple enough, if I can find the slippery little man," she mused. "For your sister, I shall dress as one of her pretty little handmaidens and poison her so she dies the same way as her darling mad son. Your brother might be the easiest of the lot since he lost his swordhand. I shall stab him in the back as he has stabbed so many others."

A strange expression flickered across Tyrion's face. Slowly, he shook his head once. "Leave my brother to another fate. Not to Aerys'. My hate for him was really just my father's doing. Jaime was just following his order." Pain bit at the edges of his voice.

"What happened?"

"Another time."

"How many other secrets do you keep from me?"

"Alyce," he murmured. Tyrion rarely sounded so weary and it cooled her rankled temper. He sighed. "I do not wish to call up such memories. It has nothing to do with you."

"Your enemies are mine, and I want to know why it is I should hate them. Promise me that when you say 'another time,' you mean it. That you will tell me. Some night we are entwined in the darkness, you will tell me."

"Have you told me your worst moments? The things you are most ashamed of?" he asked her with some challenge in his voice. She shifted uncomfortably.

He murmured, "Then do not ask it of me."

Alyce was silent. "We should sleep," she said finally. "We have been up all night. All seems quiet now, for a little while. Barristan will not convene the council until at least tomorrow." She brought Tyrion more snuggly against her and let her head rest on his. He breathed deeply and relaxed more fully against her. He made a soft groaning sound of acquiescence.

Alyce struggled to remain awake until after Tyrion had fallen asleep against her. Listening to his metered breathing had the power to bring peace to her head and heart. She listened as long as she could before her drowsiness could be put off no longer and she slipped under as well.

…


	49. XX: War

…

XX.

War

 **T** he Dornish prince was three days dying.

He took his last shuddering breath as cold rain still hissed from a dark sky to turn the old streets of the city to rivers. If not for the rain, the dragon's fires might have consumed all of Meereen. Wisps of smoke still rose from the smoldering ruin that had been the pyramid of Hazkar, and the great black pyramid of Yherizan where Rhaegal had made his lair hulked in the gloom like a fat woman bedecked with glowing orange jewels.

Alyce Waters heard that last gasp, and, her eyes tightening, she walked in from the adjoining room where the air was less befouled by the stench of death. Ser Barristan too came back in from outside the queen's apartments beside the parapets where his old blue eyes searched for the queen amid the clouds.

The tiny Naathi scribe looked up at them. "Honored ser. My lady. The prince is beyond pain now. His Dornish gods have taken him home." Missandei pulled the coverlet over was what left of the prince's face. "What will be done with him, ser? He is so very far from home."

"I'll see that he's returned to Dorne." He glanced at Alyce. She, Tyrion, and he had a plan in place that would get the poor boy's bones home to Dorne as well as enlist his two knights to fight for Daenerys' cause. Tyrion's idea. Today Ser Barristan would inform Ser Gerris and Yronwood of their prince's death and ask them to convey a message to their friend the Tattered Prince: Daenerys' hostages for Pentos. It was possible they would not agree. But then again they might.

"You should go to sleep now, sweetling," Alyce told Missandei. "In your own bed."

After the girl was gone, the old knight peeled back the coverlet for one last look at the remains of the prince.

"She should have stayed in Dorne," Ser Barristan sighed.

"Not all men are meant to dance with dragons," Alyce murmured.

Ser Barristan glanced back to her, then toward the door of the adjoining room where Lord Tyrion was. His expression was stony. "It seems your Lannister lord might be one such." He let the coverlet drape back over the boy's body. "You should know that it was the news of Lord Tyrion's success with the dragons that led Prince Quentyn to believe he would be able to control them as well."

"That is not Tyrion's fault," she said, softening her words, though she wanted to say them stiffly.

"His unchaining of Viserion and Rhaegal left them more dangerous."

"Dragons _are_ dangerous. It is better for them to be loose than imprisoned, even if they destroy half a city. Dragons kept in the dark grow twisted and angry."

"So says one man."

"He knows more about the subject than we."

"Which he uses to his advantage."

Alyce was about to rebut, but Selmy held up a hand. "Let us not argue. Not over Prince Quentyn's body like this."

They saw to having Quentyn removed, as well as Daenerys' mattress and all bedfittings. Candles of scented oils were lit in her chambers to drive away the smell of smoke and putrefying flesh. When the sun had climbed to the center of the sky, the Shavepate arrived.

"So," he said, by way of greeting, "the fool is dead, is he?"

"Prince Quentyn died an hour after dawn," Ser Barristan told him. "Is the council assembled?"

"They wait the Hand's pleasure below."

Ser Barristan grimaced slightly at that title. "Has there been any word from the Green Grace?"

"She has not yet returned to the city." Skahaz's mouth was a slash. He had opposed sending the priestess. Nor had Galazza Galare herself embraced the task. She would go, she allowed, for the sake of peace, but said that Hizdahr zo Loraq was better suited to treat with the Wise Masters. But Ser Barristan did not yield easily, and finally the Green Grace had bowed her head and sworn to do her best.

Skahaz turned to Alyce. "Where is your lord, girl?"

Alyce's look was ice. "In the next room, and you will not call me 'girl' again."

The Shavepate narrowed his eyes at her. "And what, are you going to scratch at me if I do?"

"Skahaz." Tyrion's voice ran from the doorway, before Alyce or Ser Barristan could speak. Lord Tyrion had a voice like his father's when he cared to use it. He strode toward them. "There is nothing of a _girl_ in Lady Alyce. I have seen her cut down more than two dozen men since I have known her, most of them twice her size. Award her the respect her formidability deserves, or you shall make an enemy of me where you have a friend." He turned to Alyce. "Alyce, why must you bicker with every ally we have?"

" _Abrar_ _v_ _ī_ _l_ _ī_ _bratis,_ "she answered neutrally. _All women must fight._ A play on the traditional Valyrian paired sayings.

Tyrion chuckled. " _Dr_ _ē_ _je_."

"How stands the city?" Selmy asked the Shavepate.

"We are still hunting any sellswords or Yunkai'i still inside the city, but most have disappeared inside the pyramids. There are two hundred highborn gathered in the square, standing in the rain in their tokars and howling for audience. They want Hizdahr free and me dead, and they want you to stay these dragons. Someone told them knights were good at that. Men are still pulling corpses from the pyramid of Hazkar. The Great Masters of Yherizan and Uhlez have abandoned their own pyramids to the dragons."

"And the butcher's tally?"

"Nine-and-twenty."

" _Nine-and-twenty_?" Alyce and Barristan repeated at the same time, incredulous. That was worse than she had imagined. The Sons of the Harpy had resumed their shadow war two days ago—three murders the first night, nine the second. _But to go from nine to nine-and-twenty in a single night…_

"The count will pass thirty before the evening. Why do you look so grey, old man? What did you expect? The Harpy wants Hizdahr freed, so he has sent his sons back into the streets with knives in hand. The dead are all freedman and shavepates, as before. One was mine, a Brazen Beast. The sign of the Harpy was left beside the bodies, chalked on the street or scratched into a wall. Messages as well. ' _Dragons must die'_ and ' _Death to Daenerys'_ was seen before the rain washed away the words."

"The blood tax…"

"Twenty-nine hundred pieces of gold from each pyramid, aye," Skahaz grumbled. "It will be collected…but the loss of a few coins will never stay the Harpy's hand. Only blood can do that."

"I heard you the first hundred times. No."

"Queen's Hand," Skahaz grumbled. "An old woman's hand, I am thinking, wrinkled and feeble. I pray Daenerys returns to us soon." He pulled his brazen wolf's mask down over his face. "Your council will be growing restless."

"They are the queen's council, not mine." Selmy exchanged his damp cloak for a dry one and buckled on his sword belt, then accompanied the Shavepate, Alyce, and Lord Tyrion down the steps.

The pillared hall was empty of petitioners this morning. Though he had assumed the title of Hand, Ser Barristan did not presume to hold court in the queen's absence, nor would be permit anyone else to do such. Hizdahr's grotesque thrones had been removed, but Barristan had not brought back the bench the queen had favored. Instead a large round table had been set up in the center of the hall, with tall chairs all around it where men might sit and talk as peers. Men…and woman. Ser Barristan had given her a seat as well.

They rose when the four came down the marble steps, Ser Barristan leading them. Marselen of the Mother's Men was present, with Symon Stripeback, commander of the Free Brothers. The Stalwart Shields had chosen a new commander, a Summer-Islander called Tal Toraq, their old captain, Mollono Yos Dob, having been carried off by the pale mare. Grey Worm was there for the Unsullied, attended by three eunuch serjeants in spiked bronze caps. The Stormcrows were represented by two seasoned sellswords, an archer named Jokin who Alyce actually found palatable, and the scarred and sour axeman known simply as the Widower. The two has assumed command of the company in the absence of Daario Naharis. Most of the queen's _khalasar_ had gone with Aggo and Rakharo to search for her, but the squinty, bowlegged _jaqqa rhan_ Rommo was there to speak for the riders who remained.

And also included at the table were four of King Hizdahr's erstwhile guardsmen, the put fighters Goghor the Giant, Belaquo Bonebreaker, Camarron the Count, and the Spotted Cat. Selmy had insisted on their presence, over the objections of Skahaz Shavepate, Tyrion, and herself. He had argued that they had helped Daenerys take this city once and should not be forgotten.

Last to come, Strong Belwas lumbered into the hall.

The eunuch had looked death in the face, so near he might have kissed her on the lips. It had marked him. He looked to have lost two stone of weight, and the dark brown skin that had once stretched tight across a massive chest and belly, crossed by a hundred faded scars, now hung on him in loose folds. His step had slowed as well.

Even so, the sight of him gladdened many in the group.

Ser Barristan was obviously once such, and he greeted the eunuch with a warm "Belwas. We are pleased that you could join us."

"Whitebeard." Belwas smiled. "Where is liver and onions? Strong Belwas is not so strong as before, he must eat, get big again. They made Strong Belwas sick. Someone must die."

Alyce smirked.

"Sit, my friend," said Barristan. When Belwas sat and crossed his arms, Ser Barristan went on, "Quentyn Martell died this morning, an hour after dawn."

The Widower laughed. "The dragonrider."

"Fool, I call him," said Symon Stripeback.

 _No, just a boy._ Alyce had sat herself across from Tyrion so she could better catch his eye or see a knife come toward him. He was watching Ser Barristan.

"Speak no ill of the dead," said the knight. "The prince paid a ghastly price for what he did."

"And the other Dornish?" asked Tal Tarraq.

"Prisoners, for the nonce. They share a cell."

Neither of the Dornishmen had offered any resistance, Alyce had heard. All the fight had left them. Archibald Yronwood had been cradling his prince's scorched body when the Unsullied had found them, as his burned hands could apparently testify.

"Let them share a gibbet," said Stripeback. "They unleashed two dragons on the city."

"I heard Lord Tyrion managed to charm the beasts and walk amongst the two before the same was attempted by the Dornish," said Marselen. "Could he coerce them back?"

"No," Tyrion answered him. "They have tasted freedom now. They are too clever to be coerced into imprisonment again."

"Open the pits and give them swords," urged the Cat. "I will kill them both as all Meereen shouts my name."

"The fighting pits will remain closed," said Selmy firmly. "Blood and noise would only serve to call the dragons."

"All three perhaps," suggested Marselen. "The black beast came once, why not again? This time with our queen."

Alyce shook her head. _Or without her. And if Drogon returns without Daenerys on his back, this city will erupt in blood. Everyone here would be at dagger points with each other over power._ Daenerys Targaryen was only a girl, but she held them all together.

"Her Grace will return when she returns," said Ser Barristan. "We have hearded a thousand sheep into Daznak's Pit, filled the pit of Ghrazz with bullocks, and the Golden Pit with beasts Hizdahr zo Loraq had gathered for his games. Neither are hunting man. We have more pressing matters to discuss. I have sent the Green Grace to the Yunkishmen to make arrangements for the release of our hostages. I expect her back by midday with their answer."

"With words," growled the Widower. "The Stormcrows know the Yunkai'i. Their tongues are worms that wriggle this way and that. The Green Grace will come back with worm words, not the captain."

"If it pleases the Queen's Hand to recall, the Wise Masters hold our Hero too," said Grey Worm. "Also the horselord Jhogo, the queen's own bloodrider."

"Blood of her blood," agreed the Dothraki Rommo. "He must be freed. The honor of the _khalasar_ demands it."

"He shall be freed," said Ser Barristan, "but first we must needs wait and see if the Green Grace can accomplish—"

Skahaz Shavepate brought his fist down upon the table. "The Green Grace will accomplish _nothing_. She may be conspiring with the Yunkai'i even as we sit here. _Arrangements_ , did you say? _Make arrangements_? What sort of _arrangements_?"

"Ransom," said Barristan. "Each man's weight in gold."

"The Wise Masters do not need our gold, ser," said Marselen. "They are richer than your Westerosi lords, every one."

"Their sellswords want the gold, though. What are the hostages to them? If the Yunnkishmen refuse, it will drive a blade between them and their hirelings. I have instructed the Green Grace to present the offer only when all of the Yunkish commanders have assembled to hear it."

Alyce held out no hope for ransoming, but it had been Missandei who had suggested the ploy to them, and it at least had a little teeth. She knew Ser Barristan at least was hopeful. _Eleven years of age, and the Naathi child is as clever as half the men at this table._

"They will refuse, even so," insisted Stripeback. "They will say they want the dragons dead, the king restored."

Alyce joined in the nodding and assenting noises.

"I pray that you are wrong," Barristan said.

"Your gods are far away," said the Widower. "I do not think they hear your prayers. And when the Yunkai'i send back the old woman to spit in your eye, what then?"

"Fire and blood," said Ser Barristan Selmy, softly.

Alyce smiled. For a long moment, none of the men at the table spoke. Then Strong Belwas slapped his belly and said, "Better than liver and onions," and Skahaz Shavepate stared through the eyes of his wolf's head mask and said, "You would break Hizdahr's peace, old man?"

"I would _shatter_ it." Barristan leaned forward. "We have built a beacon atop the pyramid where once the Harpy stood. Dry wood, soaked with oil, covered to keep the rain off. Should the hour come, we will light that beacon. The flames will be your signal to pour out of our gates and attack. Every man of you will have a part to play, so every man must be in readiness at all times, day or night. We will destroy our foes or be destroyed ourselves." He raised a hand to signal the waiting squires. "I have had some maps prepared to show the dispositions of our foes, their camps and siege lines and trebuchets. If we can break the slavers, their sellswords will abandon them. I know you will have concerns and questions. Voice them here. By the time we leave this table, all of us must be of a single mind, with a single purpose."

"Best send down for food and drink, then," said Symon Stripeback. "This will take a while."

It took the rest of the afternoon and evening. The captains and commanders argued over the maps like fishwives over a bucket of crabs. Weak points and strong points, how best to employ their small company of archers, whether the elephants should be used to break the Yunkish lines or held in reserve, who should have the honor of leading the first advance, whether their horse cavalry was best deployed in the flanks or the vanguard.

Ser Barristan let each man speak his mind and Alyce listened silently; she did not have any experience with battle strategy. Tal Torraq thought that they should march on Yunkai once they had broken through the lines; the Yellow City would be almost undefended, so the Yunkai'i would have no choice but to lift the siege and follow. The Spotted Cat proposed to challenge the enemy to send forth a champion to face him in single combat. Strong Belwas liked that notion but insisted he should fight, not the Cat. Camarron of the Count put forth a scheme to seize the ships tied up along the riverfront and use the Skahazadhan to bring three hundred pit fighters around the Yunkish rear. Tyrion too added his criticism and support for different plans. He had a few new ideas that a few of the freed companies supported. Every man there agreed that the Unsullied were their best troops, but no one agreed on how they should be deployed. The Widower wanted to make the eunuchs as an iron fist to smash through the heart of the Yunkish defensive. Marselen felt they would be better placed at either end of the main battle line, where they could beat back any attempt by the foe to turn their flanks. Symon Stripeback wanted them split into three and divided amongst the three companies of freedmen. His Free Brothers were brave and eager for the fight, he claimed, but without the Unsullied to stiffen them he feared his unbloodied troops might not have the discipline to face battle seasoned sellswords by themselves. Grey Worm said only that the Unsullied would obey, whatever might be asked of them.

And when all of that had been discussed, debated, and decided, Symon Stripeback raised one final point. "As a slave in Yunkai I helped my master bargain with the free companies and saw to the payment of their wages. I know sellswords, and I know that the Yunkai'i cannot pay them near enough to face dragonflame. So I asked you…if the peace should fail and this battle should be joined, will the dragons come? Will they join the fight?"

 _They will come_ , Alyce was sure. _The noise will bring them, the shouts and screams, the scent of blood. That will draw them to the battlefield, just as the roar from the pit drew Drogon to the sands. But when they come, they might not know one side from the other._

Ser Barristan replied only, "The dragons will do with the dragons will do. If they do come, and maybe just the shadow of their wings will be enough to dishearten the slavers and send them fleeing." Then he thanked them and dismissed them all. Grey Worm lingered after the others had left.

"These ones will be ready when the beacon fire is lit. But the Hand must surely know that when we attack, the Yunkai'i will kill the hostages."

"I will do all I can to prevent that, my friend." Barristan nodded at Tyrion. "Lord Tyrion and I have a secondary plan in place. Rescue will be attempted if diplomacy fails." _First by the Dornish knights and the Tattered Prince_ , Alyce knew, _and if they fail, the rest of the Windblown in the dungeon will be set to try as well._

Grey Worm inclined his head. "This one obeys."

When Alyce, Tyrion, and Ser Barristan, returned to the guarded queen's rooms atop of the pyramid, six of the young cupbearers were playing some child's game, sitting in a circle on the floor as they took turns spinning a dagger. When it wobbled to a stop they cut a lock of hair off whichever of them the blade was pointing at. Alyce had played a similar game as a child, but in Westeros, kissing was involved as well.

"Grazhar, Azzak," Ser Barristan directed at two of the cupbearers, "I am expecting the Green Grace. Show her in at once when she arrives. Elsewise, I do not wish to be disturbed."

"As you command, Lord Hand."

Barristan turned to Alyce. "Alyce, Lord Tyrion—"

"We will not intrude," Alyce said quickly. "We will sup on a lower balcony until you send for us, ser."

"Yes. Thank you."

The rain had expended itself hours earlier, Alyce saw when she and Tyrion stepped out onto third floor balcony. But the view of the sun setting into Slaver's Bay which elsewise would have been excellent was marred by a wall of slate grey clouds. A few wisps of smoke still rose in the black and stones of Hazkar, twisted like ribbons by the wind. Far off to the east, beyond the city walls, she saw pale wings moving above a distant line of hills. Viserion. Hunting mayhaps, or flying just to fly.

A few servants attended them, and when they were out of earshot, Alyce and Tyrion discussed the council meeting and ate.

As Alyce laughed at one of his japes, a sudden commotion from the city stopped her short. She turned and glanced at what she could see of the city from her chair. Tyrion stood to get a better look.

"Has Rhaegal bestirred himself?" she wondered. "I haven't seen the green in two days…" She trailed off and stood as more screaming sounded. Her eyes found the city's walls toward the siege camps as groans from great wooden and iron war machinery sounded.

"Tyrion. The trebuchets."

"Has it begun?" They rushed to low brick wall of the balcony. The Yunkish trebuchets—all six—were pelting the city. Little damage was being done by them—it seemed they were only throwing small debris. _Why not huge stones?_ The trebuchets were capable of such, Alyce could tell even from this far distance.

"Has the Green Grace even returned yet?" Alyce asked.

"They may have killed her. It seems that this is their response to Barristan's request."

"He must be told. We have to go."

"Alright, alright—just let me take this along." He grabbed up a leg of lamb from their table. "A man needs his strength if it's to be war." He smirked at her expression. "Alyce, sweet, war is not quick business."

She had already finished her own meal. She ate as fast as a wolf—always had. She eyed him, fondness and anxiety making an interesting play across her face.

"How is it that you have never stopped being in danger since I met you?" she asked him.

He held up his hands, though one of them was wrapped around a lamb bone. "One of my most inconvenient talents."

Alyce had half a mind to hit him over the head and take her unconscious charge to a room within the pyramid where she could hide with him, safe but prepared to flee if necessary. Her other half knew he was a dragontamer, the head of House Lannister, the rightful Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and the cleverest man she had ever known. And so she knew that she would follow him, protect him as best she could, but that she would never and should never keep him from his destiny. Lord Tyrion Lannister had a hero's heart, though perhaps he himself did not even realize it yet.

There was a crash as a shot from one of the Yunkish trebuchets hit the pyramid a few levels below them. Alyce and Tyrion moved to the balcony edge to assess the damage below. Another shot sailed from the siege camps toward them and splattered with a sickening noise far to their right and lower against the wall of the Great Pyramid.

"Corpses," Tyrion said in a voice that had completely lost its dry edge. "They're flinging corpses."

As they stared out toward the siege camps beyond Meereen's wall, Alyce's hand traveled down to his shoulder and he put his hand on top hers there and held it. From below, the screaming that had begun in the city was borne up to them upon the breeze.

…


	50. XXI: Aegon's Banner (Epil)

…

XXI.

Aegon's Banner

 _A Dance with Dragons: Epilogue  
_ George Martin

" **I** am no traitor," the Knight of Griffin's Roost declared. "I am King Tommen's man, and yours."

A steady drip-drip-drip punctuated his words, as snowmelt ran off his cloak to puddle on the floor. The snow had been falling on King's Landing most of the night; outside the drifts were ankle deep. Ser Kevan Lannister pulled his cloak about himself more closely. "So you say, ser. Words are wind."

"Then let me prove the truth of them with my sword." The light of the torches made a fiery blaze of Ronnet Connington's long red hair and beard. "Send me against my uncle, and I will bring you back his head, and the head of this false dragon too."

Lannister spearmen in crimson cloaks and lion-crested halfhelms stood along the west wall of the throne room. Tyrell guards in green cloaks faced them from the opposite wall. The chill in the throne room was palpable. Though neither Queen Cersei nor Queen Margaery was amongst them, their presence could be felt poisoning the air, like ghosts at a feast. Behind the table where the five members of the king's small council were seated, the Iron Throne crouched like some great black beast, its barbs and claws and blades half-shrouded in shadow. Kevan Lannister could feel it at his back, an itch between the shoulder blades. It was easy to imagine old King Aerys perched up there, bleeding from some fresh cut, glowering down. But today the throne was empty. He had seen no reason for Tommen to join them. Kinder to let the boy remain with his mother. The Seven only knew how long mother and son might have together before Cersei's trial…and possibly her execution.

Mace Tyrell was speaking. "We shall deal with your uncle and his feigned boy in due time." The new King's Hand was seated on an oaken throne carved in the shape of a hand, an absurd vanity his lordship had produced the day Ser Kevan agreed to grant him the office he coveted.

"You will bide here until we are ready to march. Then you shall have the chance to prove your loyalty."

Ser Kevan took no issue with that. "Escort Ser Ronnet back to his chambers," he said. _And see that he remains there_ went unspoken. However loud his protestations, the Knight of Griffin's Roost remained suspect. Supposedly the sellswords who had landed in the south were being led by one of his own blood.

As the echoes of Connington's footsteps faded away, Grand Maester Pycelle gave a ponderous shake of his head. "His uncle once stood just where the boy was standing now and told King Aerys how he would deliver him the head of Robert Baratheon."

 _That is how it is when a man grows as old as Pycelle. Everything you see or hear reminds you of something you saw or heard when you were young._ "How many men-at-arms accompanied Ser Ronnet to the city?" Ser Kevan asked.

"Twenty," said Lord Randyll Tarly, "and most of them Gregor Clegane's old lot. Your nephew Jaime gave them to Connington. To rid himself of them, I'd wager. They had not been in Maidenpool a day before one killed a man and another was accused of rape. I had to hang the one and geld the other. If it were up to me, I would send them all to the Night's Watch, and Connington with them. The Wall is where such scum belong."

"A dog takes after its master," declared Mace Tyrell. "Black cloaks would suit them, I agree. I will not suffer such men in the city watch." A hundred of his own Highgarden men had been added to the gold cloaks, yet plainly his lordship meant to resist any balancing infusion of westermen. _The more I give him, the more he wants._ Kevan Lannister was beginning to understand why Cersei had grown so resentful of the Tyrells. But this was not the moment to provoke an open quarrel. Randyll Tarly and Mace Tyrell had both brought armies to King's Landing, whilst the best part of the strength of House Lannister remained in the riverlands, fast melting away. "The Mountain's men were always fighters," he said in a conciliatory tone, "and we may have need of every sword against these sellswords. If this truly is the Golden Company, as Qyburn's whisperers insist—"

"Call them what you will," said Randyll Tarly. "They are still no more than adventurers."

"Perhaps," Ser Kevan said. "But the longer we ignore these adventurers, the stronger they grow. We have had a map prepared, a map of the incursions. Grand Maester?"

The map was beautiful, painted by a master's hand on a sheet of the finest vellum, so large it covered the table. "Here." Pycelle pointed with a spotted hand. Where the sleeve of his robe rode up, a flap of pale flesh could be seen dangling beneath his forearm. "Here and here. All along the coast, and on the islands. Tarth, the Stepstones, even Estermont. And now we have reports that Connington is moving on Storm's End."

"If it is Jon Connington," said Randyll Tarly.

"Storm's End." Lord Mace Tyrell grunted the words. "He cannot take Storm's End. Not if he were Aegon the Conqueror. And if he does, what of it? Stannis holds it now. Let the castle pass from one pretender to another, why should that trouble us? I shall recapture it after my daughter's innocence is proved."

 _How can you recapture it when you have never captured it to begin with?_ "I understand, my lord, but—"

Tyrell did not let him finish. "These charges against my daughter are filthy lies. I ask again, why must we play out this mummer's farce? Have King Tommen declare my daughter innocent, ser, and put an end to the foolishness here and now."

 _Do that, and the whispers will follow Margaery the rest of her life._ "No man doubts your daughter's innocence, my lord," Ser Kevan lied, "but His High Holiness insists upon a trial."

Lord Randyll snorted. "What have we become, when kings and high lords must dance to the twittering of sparrows?"

"We have foes on every hand, Lord Tarly," Ser Kevan reminded him. "Stannis in the north, ironmen in the west, sellswords in the south. Defy the High Septon, and we will have blood running in the gutters of King's Landing as well. If we are seen to be going against the gods, it will only drive the pious into the arms of one or the other of these would-be usurpers."

Mace Tyrell remained unmoved. "Once Paxter Redwyne sweeps the ironmen from the seas, my sons will retake the Shields. The snows will do for Stannis, or Bolton will. As for Connington …"

"If it is him," Lord Randyll said.

"… as for Connington," Tyrell repeated, "what victories has he ever won that we should fear him? He could have ended Robert's Rebellion at Stoney Sept. He failed. Just as the Golden Company has always failed. Some may rush to join them, aye. The realm is well rid of such fools."

Ser Kevan wished that he could share his certainty. He had known Jon Connington, slightly—a proud youth, the most headstrong of the gaggle of young lordlings who had gathered around Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, competing for his royal favor. _Arrogant, but able and energetic._ That, and his skill at arms, was why Mad King Aerys had named him Hand. Old Lord Merryweather's inaction had allowed the rebellion to take root and spread, and Aerys wanted someone young and vigorous to match Robert's own youth and vigor. "Too soon," Lord Tywin Lannister had declared when word of the king's choice had reached Casterly Rock. "Connington is too young, too bold, too eager for glory."

The Battle of the Bells had proved the truth of that. Ser Kevan had expected that afterward Aerys would have no choice but to summon Tywin once more…but the Mad King had turned to the Lords Chelsted and Rossart instead, and paid for it with life and crown. _That was all so long ago, though. If this is indeed Jon Connington, he will be a different man. Older, harder, more seasoned…more dangerous._ "Connington may have more than the Golden Company. It is said he has a Targaryen pretender."

"A feigned boy is what he has," said Randyll Tarly.

"That may be. Or not." Kevan Lannister had been here, in this very hall when Tywin had laid the bodies of Prince Rhaegar's children at the foot of the Iron Throne, wrapped up in crimson cloaks. The girl had been recognizably the Princess Rhaenys, but the boy… _a faceless horror of bone and brain and gore, a few hanks of fair hair. None of us looked long._ _Tywin said that it was Prince Aegon, and we took him at his word._ "We have these tales coming from the east as well. A second Targaryen, and one whose blood no man can question. Daenerys Stormborn."

"As mad as her father," declared Lord Mace Tyrell.

 _That would be the same father that Highgarden and House Tyrell supported to the bitter end and well beyond._ "Mad she may be," Ser Kevan said, "but with so much smoke drifting west, surely there must be some fire burning in the east."

Grand Maester Pycelle bobbed his head. "Dragons. These same stories have reached Oldtown. Too many to discount. A silver-haired queen with three dragons."

"At the far end of the world," said Mace Tyrell. "Queen of Slaver's Bay, aye. She is welcome to it."

"On that we can agree," Ser Kevan said, "but the girl is of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, and I do not think she will be content to remain in Meereen forever. If she should reach these shores and join her strength to Lord Connington and this prince of his, feigned or no…we must destroy Connington and his pretender now, before Daenerys Stormborn can come west."

Mace Tyrell crossed his arms. "I mean to do just that, ser. After the trials."

"Sellswords fight for coin," declared Grand Maester Pycelle. "With enough gold, we might persuade the Golden Company to hand over Lord Connington and the pretender."

"Aye, if we had gold," Ser Harys Swyft said. "Alas, my lords, our vaults contain only rats and roaches. I have written again to the Myrish bankers. If they will agree to make good the crown's debt to the Braavosi and extend us a new loan, mayhaps we will not have to raise the taxes. Else-wise—"

"The magisters of Pentos have been known to lend money as well," said Ser Kevan. "Try them." The Pentoshi were even less like to be of help than the Myrish money changers, but the effort must be made. Unless a new source of coin could be found, or the Iron Bank persuaded to relent, he would have no choice but to pay the crown's debts with Lannister gold. He dare not resort to new taxes, not with the Seven Kingdoms crawling with rebellion. Half the lords in the realm could not tell taxation from tyranny, and would bolt to the nearest usurper in a heartbeat if it would save them a clipped copper. "If that fails, you may well need to go to Braavos, to treat with the Iron Bank yourself."

Ser Harys quailed. "Must I?"

"You are the master of coin," Lord Randyll said sharply.

"I am." The puff of white hair at the end of Swyft's chin quivered in outrage.

"Must I remind my lord, this trouble is not of my doing? And not all of us have had the opportunity to refill our coffers with the plunder of Maidenpool and Dragonstone."

"I resent your implication, Swyft," Mace Tyrell said, bristling. "No wealth was found on Dragonstone, I promise you. My son's men have searched every inch of that damp and dreary island and turned up not so much as a single gemstone or speck of gold. Nor any sign of this fabled hoard of dragon eggs."

Kevan Lannister had seen Dragonstone with his own eyes. He doubted very much that Loras Tyrell had searched every inch of that ancient stronghold. The Valyrians had raised it, after all, and all their works stank of sorcery. And Ser Loras was young, prone to all the rash judgments of youth, and had been grievously wounded storming the castle besides. But it would not do to remind Tyrell that his favorite son was fallible. "If there was wealth on Dragonstone, Stannis would have found it," he declared. "Let us move along, my lords. We have two queens to try for high treason, you may recall. My niece has elected trial by battle, she informs me. Ser Robert Strong will champion her."

"The silent giant." Lord Randyll grimaced. "Tell me, ser, where did this man come from?" demanded Mace Tyrell. "Why have we never heard his name before? He does not speak, he will not show his face, he is never seen without his armor. Do we know for a certainty that he is even a knight?"

 _We do not even know if he's alive._ Meryn Trant claimed that Strong took neither food nor drink, and Boros Blount went so far as to say he had never seen the man use the privy. _Why should he? Dead men do not shit._ Kevan Lannister had a strong suspicion of just who this Ser Robert really was beneath that gleaming white armor. A suspicion that Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly no doubt shared. Whatever the face hidden behind Strong's helm, it must remain hidden for now. The silent giant was his niece's only hope. _And pray that he is as formidable as he appears._

But Mace Tyrell could not seem to see beyond the threat to his own daughter. "His Grace named Ser Robert to the Kingsguard," Ser Kevan reminded him, "and Qyburn vouches for the man as well. Be that as it may, we need Ser Robert to prevail, my lords. If my niece is proved guilty of these treasons, the legitimacy of her children will be called into question. If Tommen ceases to be a king, Margaery will cease to be a queen." He let Tyrell chew on that a moment. "Whatever Cersei may have done, she is still a daughter of the Rock, of mine own blood. I will not let her die a traitor's death, but I have made sure to draw her fangs. All her guards have been dismissed and replaced with my own men. In place of her former ladies-in-waiting, she will henceforth be attended by a septa and three novices selected by the High Septon. She is to have no further voice in the governance of the realm, nor in Tommen's education. I mean to return her to Casterly Rock after the trial and see that she remains there. Let that suffice."

The rest he left unsaid. Cersei was soiled goods now, her power at an end. Every baker's boy and beggar in the city had seen her in her shame and every tart and tanner from Flea Bottom to Pisswater Bend had gazed upon her nakedness, their eager eyes crawling over her breasts and belly and woman's parts. No queen could expect to rule again after that. In gold and silk and emeralds Cersei had been a queen, the next thing to a goddess; naked, she was only human, an aging woman with stretch marks on her belly and teats that had begun to sag…as the shrews in the crowds had been glad to point out to their husbands and lovers. _Better to live shamed than die proud,_ Ser Kevan told himself. "My niece will make no further mischief," he promised Mace Tyrell. "You have my word on that, my lord."

Tyrell gave a grudging nod. "As you say. My Margaery prefers to be tried by the Faith, so the whole realm can bear witness to her innocence."

 _If your daughter is as innocent as you'd have us believe, why must you have your army present when she faces her accusers?_ Ser Kevan might have asked. "Soon, I hope," he said instead, before turning to Grand Maester Pycelle. "Is there aught else?"

The Grand Maester consulted his papers. "We should address the Rosby inheritance. Six claims have been put forth—"

"We can settle Rosby at some later date. What else?"

"Preparations should be made for Princess Myrcella."

"This is what comes of dealing with the Dornish," Mace Tyrell said.

"Surely a better match can be found for the girl?"

 _Such as your own son Willas, perhaps? Her disfigured by one Dornishman, him crippled by another?_ "No doubt," Ser Kevan said, "but we have enemies enough without offending Dorne. If Doran Martell were to join his strength to Connington's in support of this feigned dragon, things could go very ill for all of us."

"Mayhaps we can persuade our Dornish friends to deal with Lord Connington," Ser Harys Swyft said with an irritating titter. "That would save a deal of blood and trouble."

"It would," Ser Kevan said wearily. _Time to put an end to this._ "Thank you, my lords. Let us convene again five days hence. After Cersei's trial."

"As you say. May the Warrior lend strength to Ser Robert's arms."

The words were grudging, the dip of the chin Mace Tyrell gave the Lord Regent the most cursory of bows. But it was something, and for that much Ser Kevan Lannister was grateful.

Randyll Tarly left the hall with his liege lord, their green-cloaked spear-men right behind them. _Tarly is the real danger,_ Ser Kevan reflected as he watched their departure. A narrow man, but iron-willed and shrewd, and as good a soldier as the Reach could boast. _But how do I win him to our side?_

"Lord Tyrell loves me not," Grand Maester Pycelle said in gloomy tones when the Hand had departed. "This matter of the moon tea…I would never have spoken of such, but the Queen Dowager commanded me! If it please the Lord Regent, I would sleep more soundly if you could lend me some of your guards."

"Lord Tyrell might take that amiss."

Ser Harys Swyft tugged at his chin beard. "I am in need of guards myself. These are perilous times."

 _Aye_ , thought Kevan Lannister, _and Pycelle is not the only council member our Hand would like to replace._ Mace Tyrell had his own candidate for lord treasurer: his uncle, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden, whom men called Garth the Gross. _The last thing I need is another Tyrell on the small council._ He was already outnumbered. Ser Harys was his wife's father, and Pycelle could be counted upon as well. But Tarly was sworn to Highgarden, as was Paxter Redwyne, lord admiral and master of ships, presently sailing his fleet around Dorne to deal with Euron Greyjoy's ironmen. Once Redwyne returned to King's Landing, the council would stand at three and three, Lannister and Tyrell.

The seventh voice would be the Dornishwoman now escorting Myrcella home. _The Lady Nym. But no lady, if even half of what Qyburn reports is true._ A bastard daughter of the Red Viper, near as notorious as her father and intent on claiming the council seat that Prince Oberyn himself had occupied so briefly. Ser Kevan had not yet seen fit to inform Mace Tyrell of her coming. The Hand, he knew, would not be pleased. _The man we need is Littlefinger._ Petyr Baelish had a gift for conjuring dragons from the air.

"Hire the Mountain's men," Ser Kevan suggested. "Red Ronnet will have no further use for them." He did not think that Mace Tyrell would be so clumsy as to try to murder either Pycelle or Swyft, but if guards made them feel safer, let them have guards.

The three men walked together from the throne room. Outside the snow was swirling round the outer ward, a caged beast howling to be free.

"Have you ever felt such cold?" asked Ser Harys.

"The time to speak of the cold," said Grand Maester Pycelle, "is not when we are standing out in it." He made his slow way across the outer ward, back to his chambers.

The others lingered for a moment on the throne room steps. "I put no faith in these Myrish bankers," Ser Kevan told his good-father. "You had best prepare to go to Braavos."

Ser Harys did not look happy at the prospect. "If I must. But I say again, this trouble is not of my doing."

"No. It was Cersei who decided that the Iron Bank would wait for their due. Should I send her to Braavos?"

Ser Harys blinked. "Her Grace…that…that…"

Ser Kevan rescued him. "That was a jape. A bad one. Go and find a warm fire. I mean to do the same." He yanked his gloves on and set off across the yard, leaning hard into the wind as his cloak snapped and swirled behind him.

The dry moat surrounding Maegor's Holdfast was three feet deep in snow, the iron spikes that lined it glistening with frost. The only way in or out of Maegor's was across the drawbridge that spanned that moat. A knight of the Kingsguard was always posted at its far end. Tonight the duty had fallen to Ser Meryn Trant. With Balon Swann hunting the rogue knight Darkstar down in Dorne, Loras Tyrell gravely wounded on Dragonstone, and Jaime vanished in the riverlands, only four of the White Swords remained in King's Landing, and Ser Kevan had thrown Osmund Kettleblack (and his brother Osfryd) into the dungeon within hours of Cersei's confessing that she had taken both men as lovers. That left only Trant, the feeble Boros Blount, and Qyburn's mute monster Robert Strong to protect the young king and royal family.

 _I will need to find some new swords for the Kingsguard._ Tommen should have seven good knights about him. In the past the Kingsguard had served for life, but that had not stopped Joffrey from dismissing Ser Barristan Selmy to make a place for his dog, Sandor Clegane. Kevan could make use of that precedent. _I could put Lancel in a white cloak,_ he reflected. _There is more honor in that than he will ever find in the Warrior's Sons._ Kevan Lannister hung his snow-sodden cloak inside his solar, pulled off his boots, and commanded his serving man to fetch some fresh wood for his fire. "A cup of mulled wine would go down well," he said as he settled by the hearth. "See to it."

The fire soon thawed him, and the wine warmed his insides nicely. It also made him sleepy, so he dare not drink another cup. His day was far from done. He had reports to read, letters to write. And supper with Cersei and the king. His niece had been subdued and submissive since her walk of atonement, thank the gods. The novices who attended her reported that she spent a third of her waking hours with her son, another third in prayer, and the rest in her tub. She was bathing four or five times a day, scrubbing herself with horsehair brushes and strong lye soap, as if she meant to scrape her skin off.

 _She will never wash the stain away, no matter how hard she scrubs._ Ser Kevan remembered the girl she once had been, so full of life and mischief. And when she'd flowered, ahhhh…had there ever been a maid so sweet to look upon? _If Aerys had agreed to marry her to Rhaegar, how many deaths might have been avoided?_ Cersei could have given the prince the sons he wanted, lions with purple eyes and silver manes…and with such a wife, Rhaegar might never have looked twice at Lyanna Stark. The northern girl had a wild beauty, as he recalled, though however bright a torch might burn it could never match the rising sun.

But it did no good to brood on lost battles and roads not taken. That was a vice of old done men. Rhaegar had wed Elia of Dorne, Lyanna Stark had died, Robert Baratheon had taken Cersei to bride, and here they were. And tonight his own road would take him to his niece's chambers and face-to-face with Cersei.

 _I have no reason to feel guilty,_ Ser Kevan told himself. Tywin would understand that, surely _. It was his daughter who brought shame down on our name, not I. What I did I did for the good of House Lannister._ It was not as if his brother had never done the same. In their father's final years, after their mother's passing, their sire had taken the comely daughter of a candlemaker as mistress. It was not unknown for a widowed lord to keep a common girl as bedwarmer…but Lord Tytos soon began seating the woman beside him in the hall, showering her with gifts and honors, even asking her views on matters of state. Within a year she was dismissing servants, ordering about his household knights, even speaking for his lordship when he was indisposed. She grew so influential that it was said about Lannisport that any man who wished for his petition to be heard should kneel before her and speak loudly to her lap…for Tytos Lannister's ear was between his lady's legs. _She had even taken to wearing their mother's jewels._

Until the day their lord father's heart had burst in his chest as he was ascending a steep flight of steps to her bed, that is. All the self-seekers who had named themselves her friends and cultivated her favor had abandoned her quickly enough when Tywin had her stripped naked and paraded through Lannisport to the docks, like a common whore. Though no man laid a hand on her, that walk spelled the end of her power. Surely Tywin would never have dreamed that same fate awaited his own golden daughter.

"It had to be," Ser Kevan muttered over the last of his wine. His High Holiness had to be appeased. Tommen needed the Faith behind him in the battles to come. And Cersei…the golden child had grown into a vain, foolish, greedy woman. Left to rule, she would have ruined Tommen as she had Joffrey.

Outside the wind was rising, clawing at the shutters of his chamber. Ser Kevan pushed himself to his feet. Time to face the lioness in her den. _We have pulled her claws. Jaime, though…_ But no, he would not brood on that.

He donned an old, well-worn doublet, in case his niece had a mind to throw another cup of wine in his face, but he left his sword belt hanging on the back of his chair. Only the knights of the Kingsguard were permitted swords in Tommen's presence.

Ser Boros Blount was in attendance on the boy king and his mother when Ser Kevan entered the royal chambers. Blount wore enameled scale, white cloak, and halfhelm. He did not look well. Of late Boros had grown notably heavier about the face and belly, and his color was not good. And he was leaning against the wall behind him, as if standing had become too great an effort for him.

The meal was served by three novices, well-scrubbed girls of good birth between the ages of twelve and sixteen. In their soft white woolens, each seemed more innocent and unworldly than the last, yet the High Septon had insisted that no girl spend more than seven days in the queen's service, lest Cersei corrupt her. They tended the queen's wardrobe, drew her bath, poured her wine, changed her bedclothes of a morning. One shared the queen's bed every night, to ascertain she had no other company; the other two slept in an adjoining chamber with the septa who looked over them. A tall stork of a girl with a pockmarked face escorted him into the royal presence. Cersei rose when he entered and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Dear uncle. It is so good of you to sup with us." The queen was dressed as modestly as any matron, in a dark brown gown that buttoned up to her throat and a hooded green mantle that covered her shaved head. Before her walk she would have flaunted her baldness beneath a golden crown. "Come, sit," she said. "Will you have wine?"

"A cup." He sat, still wary.

A freckled novice filled their cups with hot spiced wine. "Tommen tells me that Lord Tyrell intends to rebuild the Tower of the Hand," Cersei said.

Ser Kevan nodded. "The new tower will be twice as tall as the one you burned, he says."

Cersei gave a throaty laugh. "Long lances, tall towers … is Lord Tyrell hinting at something?"

That made him smile. _It is good that she still remembers how to laugh._ When he asked if she had all that she required, the queen said, "I am well served. The girls are sweet, and the good septas make certain that I say my prayers. But once my innocence is proved, it would please me if Taena Merryweather might attend me once again. She could bring her son to court. Tommen needs other boys about him, friends of noble birth."

It was a modest request. Ser Kevan saw no reason why it should not be granted. He could foster the Merryweather boy himself, whilst Lady Taena accompanied Cersei back to Casterly Rock. "I will send for her after the trial," he promised.

Supper began with beef-and-barley soup, followed by a brace of quail and a roast pike near three feet long, with turnips, mushrooms, and plenty of hot bread and butter. Ser Boros tasted every dish that was set before the king. A humiliating duty for a knight of the Kingsguard, but perhaps all Blount was capable of these days…and wise, after the way Tommen's brother had died.

The king seemed happier than Kevan Lannister had seen him in a long time. From soup to sweet Tommen burbled about the exploits of his kittens, whilst feeding them morsels of pike off his own royal plate. "The bad cat was outside my window last night," he informed Kevan at one point, "but Ser Pounce hissed at him and he ran off across the roofs."

"The bad cat?" Ser Kevan said, amused. _He is a sweet boy._ "An old black tomcat with a torn ear," Cersei told him. "A filthy thing, and foul-tempered. He clawed Joff's hand once." She made a face. "The cats keep the rats down, I know, but that one … he's been known to attack ravens in the rookery."

"I will ask the ratters to set a trap for him." Ser Kevan could not remember ever seeing his niece so quiet, so subdued, so demure. _All for the good_ , he supposed. But it made him sad as well. _Her fire is quenched, she who used to burn so bright._ "You have not asked about your brother," he said, as they were waiting for the cream cakes. Cream cakes were the king's favorite.

Cersei lifted her chin, her green eyes shining in the candlelight. "Jaime? Have you had word?"

"None. Cersei, you may need to prepare yourself for—"

"If he were dead, I would know it. We came into this world together, Uncle. He would not go without me." She took a drink of wine. "Tyrion can leave whenever he wishes. You have had no word of him either, I suppose."

"No one has tried to sell us a dwarf's head of late, no."

She nodded. "Uncle, may I ask you a question?"

"Whatever you wish."

"Your wife … do you mean to bring her to court?"

"No." Dorna was a gentle soul, never comfortable but at home with friends and kin around her. She had done well by their children, dreamed of having grandchildren, prayed seven times a day, loved needlework and flowers. In King's Landing she would be as happy as one of Tommen's kittens in a pit of vipers. "My lady wife mislikes travel. Lannisport is her place."

"It is a wise woman who knows her place."

He did not like the sound of that. "Say what you mean."

"I thought I did." Cersei held out her cup. The freckled girl filled it once again. The cream cakes appeared then, and the conversation took a lighter turn. Only after Tommen and his kittens were escorted off to the royal bedchamber by Ser Boros did their talk turn to the queen's trial.

"Osney's brothers will not stand by idly and watch him die," Cersei warned him.

"I did not expect that they would. I've had the both of them arrested." That seemed to take her aback. "For what crime?"

"Fornication with a queen. His High Holiness says that you confessed to bedding both of them—had you forgotten?"

Her face reddened. "No. What will you do with them?"

"The Wall, if they admit their guilt. If they deny it, they can face Ser Robert. Such men should never have been raised so high."

Cersei lowered her head. "I … I misjudged them."

"You misjudged a good many men, it seems."

He might have said more, but the dark-haired novice with the round cheeks returned to say, "My lord, my lady, I am sorry to intrude, but there is a boy below. Grand Maester Pycelle begs the favor of the Lord Regent's presence at once."

 _Dark wings, dark words_ , Ser Kevan thought. Could Storm's End have fallen? Or might this be word from Bolton in the north?

"It might be news of Jaime," the queen said.

There was only one way to know. Ser Kevan rose. "Pray excuse me."

Before he took his leave, he dropped to one knee and kissed his niece upon the hand. If her silent giant failed her, it might be the last kiss she would ever know.

The messenger was a boy of eight or nine, so bundled up in fur he seemed a bear cub. Trant had kept him waiting out on the drawbridge rather than admit him into Maegor's. "Go find a fire, lad," Ser Kevan told him, pressing a penny into his hand. "I know the way to the rookery well enough."

The snow had finally stopped falling. Behind a veil of ragged clouds, a full moon floated fat and white as a snowball. The stars shone cold and distant. As Ser Kevan made his way across the inner ward, the castle seemed an alien place, where every keep and tower had grown icy teeth, and all familiar paths had vanished beneath a white blanket. Once an icicle long as a spear fell to shatter by his feet. _Autumn in King' s Landing_ , he brooded. _What must it be like up on the Wall?_

The door was opened by a serving girl, a skinny thing in a fur-lined robe much too big for her. Ser Kevan stamped the snow off his boots, removed his cloak, tossed it to her. "The Grand Maester is expecting me," he announced. The girl nodded, solemn and silent, and pointed to the steps. Pycelle's chambers were beneath the rookery, a spacious suite of rooms cluttered with racks of herbs and salves and potions and shelves jammed full of books and scrolls. Ser Kevan had always found them uncomfortably hot. Not tonight. Once past the chamber door, the chill was palpable. Black ash and dying embers were all that remained of the hearthfire. A few flickering candles cast pools of dim light here and there. The rest was shrouded in shadow…except beneath the open window, where a spray of ice crystals glittered in the moonlight, swirling in the wind. On the window seat a raven loitered, pale, huge, its feathers ruffled. It was the largest raven that Kevan Lannister had ever seen. Larger than any hunting hawk at Casterly Rock, larger than the largest owl. Blowing snow danced around it, and the moon painted it silver.

 _Not silver. White. The bird is white._

The white ravens of the Citadel did not carry messages, as their dark cousins did. When they went forth from Oldtown, it was for one purpose only: to herald a change of seasons.

"Winter," said Ser Kevan. The word made a white mist in the air. He turned away from the window.

Then something slammed him in the chest between the ribs, hard as a giant's fist. It drove the breath from him and sent him lurching backwards. The white raven took to the air, its pale wings slapping him about the head. Ser Kevan half-sat and half-fell onto the window seat. _What…who…_ A quarrel was sunk almost to the fletching in his chest. _No. No, that was how my brother died._ Blood was seeping out around the shaft. "Pycelle," he muttered, confused. "Help me… I …"

Then he saw. Grand Maester Pycelle was seated at his table, his head pillowed on the great leather-bound tome before him. Sleeping, Kevan thought…until he blinked and saw the deep red gash in the old man's spotted skull and the blood pooled beneath his head, staining the pages of his book. All around his candle were bits of bone and brain, islands in a lake of melted wax.

 _He wanted guards_ , Ser Kevan thought. _I should have sent him guards._ Could Cersei have been right all along? Was this his nephew's work?

"Tyrion?" he called. "Where… ?"

"Far away," a half-familiar voice replied.

He stood in a pool of shadow by a bookcase, plump, pale-faced, round-shouldered, clutching a crossbow in soft powdered hands. Silk slippers swaddled his feet.

"Varys?"

The eunuch set the crossbow down. "Ser Kevan. Forgive me if you can. I bear you no ill will. This was not done from malice. It was for the realm. For the children."

 _I have children. I have a wife. Oh, Dorna._ Pain washed over him. He closed his eyes, opened them again. "There are…there are hundreds of Lannister guardsmen in this castle."

"But none in this room, thankfully. This pains me, my lord. You do not deserve to die alone on such a cold dark night. There are many like you, good men in service to bad causes…but you were threatening to undo all the queen's good work, to reconcile Highgarden and Casterly Rock, bind the Faith to your little king, unite the Seven Kingdoms under Tommen's rule. So …"

A gust of wind blew up. Ser Kevan shivered violently. "Are you cold, my lord?" asked Varys. "Do forgive me. The Grand Maester befouled himself in dying, and the stink was so abominable that I thought I might choke."

Ser Kevan tried to rise, but the strength had left him. He could not feel his legs.

"I thought the crossbow fitting. You shared so much with Lord Tywin, why not that? Your niece will think the Tyrells had you murdered, mayhaps with the connivance of the Imp. The Tyrells will suspect her. Someone somewhere will find a way to blame the Dornishmen. Doubt, division, and mistrust will eat the very ground beneath your boy king, whilst Aegon raises his banner above Storm's End and the lords of the realm gather round him."

"Aegon?" For a moment he did not understand. Then he remembered. _A babe swaddled in a crimson cloak, the cloth stained with his blood and brains._ "Dead. He's dead."

"No." The eunuch's voice seemed deeper. "He is here. Aegon has been shaped for rule since before he could walk. He has been trained in arms, as befits a knight to be, but that was not the end of his education. He reads and writes, he speaks several tongues, he has studied history and law and poetry. A septa has instructed him in the mysteries of the Faith since he was old enough to understand them. He has lived with fisherfolk, worked with his hands, swum in rivers and mended nets and learned to wash his own clothes at need. He can fish and cook and bind up a wound, he knows what it is like to be hungry, to be hunted, to be afraid. Tommen has been taught that kingship is his right. Aegon knows that kingship is his duty, that a king must put his people first, and live and rule for them."

Kevan Lannister tried to cry out…to his guards, his wife, his brother…but the words would not come. Blood dribbled from his mouth. He shuddered violently.

"I am sorry." Varys wrung his hands. "You are suffering, I know, yet here I stand going on like some silly old woman. Time to make an end to it." The eunuch pursed his lips and gave a little whistle. Ser Kevan was cold as ice, and every labored breath sent a fresh stab of pain through him. He glimpsed movement, heard the soft scuffling sound of slippered feet on stone. A child emerged from a pool of darkness, a pale boy in a ragged robe, no more than nine or ten. Another rose up behind the Grand Maester's chair. The girl who had opened the door for him was there as well. They were all around him, half a dozen of them, white-faced children with dark eyes, boys and girls together.

And in their hands, the daggers.

…

 _Author's Note to Readers:_

 _So ends_ A Dance with Dragons _and this fiction too, until_ Winds of Winter _comes out or I create my own ending in impatience. No one can do what Martin does, so if I created my own ending entirely, it would be terribly lacking, and that's why I'm waiting for more canon._

 _Although I have this terrible feeling that Martin is going to have Tyrion die saving someone or as a martyr to Daenerys' cause… But not in my fiction, dang it._

 _Thank you all for all of your kind words and for being such wonderful support. I hope you enjoyed the ride so far._

 _With love,_

 _L &P_


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